The Bites Of The Partnership Pie
by casket4mytears
Summary: A home for random one-shots and ficlets based off prompts from bitesize bones and other places. All stories tagged and rated as appropriate. B&B all up in here, likely some Hodgela and others.
1. Don't Shoot The Messenger

_**AN: Welcome to this, my collection of random Bones one-shots and ficlets in response to prompts from bitesize_bones or hell, anyone's idea that I feel game to tackle.**_

_**Please read spoiler notes carefully for each fic. Unless otherwise stated, none of these pieces are related to each other.**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Bones. I wish HH would hire me as a writer. For now, I do this out of love. Consider me disclaimed.**_

* * *

**TITLE: Don't Shoot The Messenger**  
**TAG TO: Aliens In A Spaceship**  
**PROMPT: "What if Hodgins caught a glimpse of Brennan's note in Aliens in a Spaceship, and told Booth about it later?"**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

She seemed okay at first, at least to Booth's critical eye. She'd come with him to church, where she was her usual scientist self, bluntly denying the existence of God in his own house. She'd been at ease on the drive back to her apartment, where they'd shared Thai take-out and passed out after an unhealthy quantity of scotch (he on the couch, she in her bed). They'd picked through the leftovers for breakfast before he'd rushed home to change for the work day.

By lunch, she'd recoiled from him, lost somewhere behind those beautiful blue eyes that cut through him no matter how hard he tried to resist her. The excuses came fast and furious at lunch: her editor needed a chapter by the evening; she had reports to complete; there was a fascinating new case in Limbo that simply could not wait; she "wasn't hungry anyway". Booth had accepted all of this as factual, had slipped off to grab lunch alone before returning to his office to schlock through the paperwork. But when she'd turned him down for a late dinner, insisting she had to work late, he was no longer buying it.

"C'mon Bones. I bet you didn't even eat lunch today," he protested.

"I did so," she replied indignantly. "I had an apple and trail mix."

He snorted in disbelief. "That's not a meal; that's rabbit food! Look, I'll even treat you to fries so you can keep your fingers off my plate."

"Booth, I lost a great deal of time and my work is backed up. It would be highly unprofessional of me to neglect these reports."

Her eyes were locked on her computer monitor. _She's lying._ Her hand came to rest unconsciously on the tiny burn marks on her neck and he frowned. _Why won't she talk to me_?

"You need to get out of here and kick back," he said. "The reports can wait."

At this, his hand came to rest on hers. Her entire body tensed, her breath hitched and he recoiled as if struck by lightning.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said firmly.

"Okay. Okay, Bones."

He left her office, finding himself unable to leave the lab entirely. Something was wrong. Had he done something wrong? Was she angry for the way he'd yelled at the squints? Surely, she'd overlook that. It was to save her life, for God's sake! Her and Hodgins – and speak of the devil, here came the bug loving conspiracy freak. He'd obviously not slept the night before and Booth couldn't blame him after the ordeal they'd endured.

Hodgins froze as he saw Booth, eyes darting back and forth as if seeking an escape route. _He knows something_, Booth thought.

"Hey Hodgins, what's going on?"

"Oh, just, uh, looking for Angela. She was supposed to come right back so we could head out," he replied. His neck craned, struggling to see the doors behind Booth. "Maybe I should wait outside for her."

"I'll wait with you," Booth offered.

"Nah man, you don't have to do that. I mean, there's security and cameras and—"

"And you're nervous about something, and I'm betting it has to do with Bones," Booth finished for him. "So walk with me and spill."

"Booth, I—"

"Something's wrong with Bones," he said quietly. "Come on, Hodgins. She's my partner. If you know something, tell me."

The doctor sighed, leaning heavily on his crutches. "Fine," he hissed. "But not in here. Dr. B's got supersonic hearing."

Booth nodded, following Hodgins outside, which was an incredibly slow process given his leg injury. He was patient, though. Hodgins had answers about Bones. Booth would have those answers. The doctor lowered himself onto a bench with a pained sigh.

"She's not okay, is she?" Booth asked.

"What, with being buried alive and left for dead? Blowing us out of a hole and clawing her way to freedom?" Hodgins asked, the sarcasm thick. "Oh yeah, she's just swell."

"Hodgins, I will hit you, crutches be damned."

"You'd hit a cripple? Classy."

"Did I piss her off?" Booth asked. "Did she call me an 'alpha male' or mutter about some anthropological study about how I offended her intelligence or independence or whatever?"

Hodgins shook his head. "I'm not telling you a thing unless you make me a promise to _never_ breathe a word of it to Dr. Brennan."

"Fine, sure, I promise."

"No, seriously dude, _promise me_. Swear on the grave of someone you actually care about, or something like that."

That old saying about felines and their inquisitive natures got to him. "I swear on Parker's life that I will never let on that I know whatever it is you're going to tell me."

Hodgins exhaled loudly. "Down there… when we were trapped… I thought I was going to die, so I tore a page from the book and wrote a note."

"For Angela?"

Hodgins blushed. "Yeah. And if you tell anyone _that_, I will kill you."

Booth chuckled. "Sure you will. Get on with it."

His eyes darted around again and Booth wondered if the guy was on potent medication for his leg. There was no one around! He gestured for Booth to crouch down and he obliged, if only to get this suddenly exhausting experience over with.

_This better be good_.

"Right before she blew us out of there, I stopped her. Asked if she maybe wanted to say goodbye to someone herself. She took the pen and ripped out her own page. I know it was wrong, but it's not like a car is a huge space. No real privacy. I didn't see everything, but I saw enough."

"What did it say?"

Hodgins hesitated briefly before replying. "It said, 'The tequila was a stupid reason to turn you down that night.'"

Booth felt the air squeezed out of his lungs by this revelation. He was suddenly back there, standing outside that bar, watching her get into that damn cab and driving away. _Tequila_. That was her reason for going home alone. For not… _Crap_. Maybe he really shouldn't have asked.

"There's Angela," Hodgins announced, rising gingerly. "She destroyed the note today in her office so… remember your promise."

"I will."

He'd remember it and regret it deeply. Because now, all he wanted was to march inside and grab her by the shoulders and ask her why she'd written those words. But he couldn't. He'd sworn on his son's life. Booth was a gambler at heart, but there were things you just didn't take chances with.

What did the rest of that damn note say? And why did he feel like the answer held the key to his future?

His phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the display. _Camille_. He knew how this conversation would play out: she'd invite him out for dinner, they'd stay in and have sex, and he'd wake up still uncomfortable with the whole thing for reasons he could never articulate. He let the call go to voicemail, his mind fixated on the memory of soft lips and softer hair…

* * *

"What's Booth doing?" Angela asked as she opened her passenger door.

Hodgins glanced back at the bewildered agent, shaking his head. "I guess he's thinking of losses."

"I'm glad you're not one of those," Angela murmured, kissing his cheek. "Let's get going."

Hodgins buckled himself in before reaching into his wallet. Withdrawing a small folded square, he turned it round and round between his fingers. Maybe he should have given the note to Booth, after all. Dr. B. hadn't said _not to_, although she hadn't told Hodgins to keep it, either.

"What's that?" Angela asked.

"Note to myself," he replied, shoving it back inside his wallet.

He didn't need to open it to remember the words scrawled neatly upon it. They would be forever branded in his mind.

_The tequila was a stupid reason to turn you down that night. I've regretted it every day since, Booth. Please visit my grave, as I'll miss you dearly._

Hodgins believed in second chances. He hoped someday those two would have theirs.


	2. Even Heroes Need To Be Held

**TITLE: Even Heroes Need To Be Held**  
**TAG TO: Hero In The Hold**  
**PROMPT: "Hero in the Hold - What if Booth didn't want to go back to his apartment after being rescued?"**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

He is silent on the drive back into the city. She does not push him or pry. She understands that Booth is someone with a need to retreat inward, to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. She will indulge him for a time, but not perpetually.

She knows what it is like to race a clock, to outrun death. She knows the violation of self, the loss of control, inherent in a kidnapping. She knows he will have nightmares. She still has them, at least once per week. On those nights, when she awakens drenched in sweat and gasping for air, she can smell that $3000 perfume Hodgins bought Angela mixed with the tangy rust of his blood. She hugs herself, struggling to contain the fear, and is grateful for her lonely life.

She remembers how he hovered after pulling her from the crumbling earth, how he insisted she come to church with him, then to lunch, then dinner. How they escorted Parker to the playground, Booth insisting that his son missed her company. She remembers and knows the truth of his actions, knows why he passed out on her couch that night. They were both afraid and neither of them admitted it.

So when she pulls up in front of his apartment and he flinches, she offers him her couch. _Your place is a mess_, she tells him. _I'll fix you something to eat_. He weakly jokes about vegetables being worse than starving, and she pretends to be insulted as she takes him home. She doesn't speak of the fear behind his eyes, nor does she confess that she cannot, will not, be apart from him. Not today.

Because she almost lost him again, and her heart is growing far too fragile to withstand that agonizing prospect.

She opens the door, holding it open for him. He stumbles inside in his disheveled tuxedo and she is struck by the thought that he is like a little boy playing dress-up, lost and lonely. She locks the door, turning the knob and pulling to reassure herself that it is secure.

"Did you want to change?" she asks.

"Change?"

Booth is confused. He has forgotten about the night three months ago, when they found themselves caught in the rain while walking to the liquor store down the street. He'd retrieved his gym clothes from his car, changing into them upstairs. She'd tossed his jeans and t-shirt into the dryer and promptly forgot to return them in the morning.

She continues to forget, because on those nights when she awakens in terror, she wears the t-shirt to calm herself.

"You have clothes here. From that night when it rained," she prompts him.

"Right. Yeah, that sounds good."

She leads him to her bedroom, pulling the neatly folded clothes from her closet. She is always careful to fold the t-shirt after use, in case he ever asks for the garments. He accepts them with a forced smile as she also offers him a towel and suggests a warm shower.

"You trying to say I stink, Bones?"

He tries to joke around, but his heart truly isn't in it. It is battered and small upon his sleeve, not looming large and laughing in his eyes per usual. She continues to pretend that she doesn't realize he is about to fall apart. For now.

"Maybe I am," she says, playing along. "The heat will help your back. I'll go see what I can find to cook."

She walks away, returning to the kitchen to search her cupboards. She realizes that she ironically has all of the ingredients for macaroni and cheese save the actual pasta noodles, and contemplates running to the store for it. She hears the shower turn on and decides to continue her search, reluctant to leave Booth alone. She realizes that she has very little food in her house of any kind, Booth-friendly or otherwise. Take-out seems likely.

Her breath catches as she hears him sob but once. _Should I_? It is the question she always seems to be asking herself, in one way or another. She hears a soft thump and immediately panics, afraid he has lost consciousness after his ordeal. She rushes to the bathroom, opening the door and calling out.

"Booth? Are you okay?"

"F-fine," he lies. "Just slipped a bit."

She hesitates. _Should I_? When he sobs again, she nods and reaches for the towel on the counter. He needs her. She reaches inside and turns off the shower, then passes him the towel behind the curtain. He accepts it silently and she steps backwards, offering him space. But only a little. Because he needs her, and she will be here for him.

The curtain opens and his eyes are swollen, the towel wrapped around his waist. He startles at the sight of her, but isn't angry. He's looking for an excuse to keep her close and she will oblige him. She is his partner.

"There's no need for modesty," she insists. "I've seen everything before."

"Don't remind me," he grumbles, flushing crimson.

She grabs a second towel from the nearby rack and gently dries his arms, steeling herself against the perplexing heat their musculature induces in her. She dries his back, his chest, moving in gentle circles, and he thanks her softly.

"I can get dressed myself," he tells her.

"Okay. I'll be in the living room."

He watches her depart, shutting the door to a crack. He is overwhelmed by her kindness and is struck, as he often is, by how privileged he is to see this side of her, this gentle vulnerability she keeps locked away from the world. He pulls on his jeans and flinches at a soreness in his back. She's asked no questions and he is grateful for her silence. He cannot admit that the thought of being alone steals his breath away. He needs her, and she is here.

He pulls on his t-shirt and is immediately aware of her scent. He pulls the fabric to his nose, inhales deeply. She's worn this shirt before him. For the first time since his ordeal began, he smiles. He never forgot about the clothing soaked by the rain. He chose to leave the clothes behind. In the darkest corners of his mind, he has imagined her sleeping in this shirt, but he is stunned to find out that she has done just that.

She needs him as much as he needs her.

He returns to the living room, where she is poring over take-out menus and biting her lip. He knows he should be hungry, but he isn't. He feels small and sad and also cared for. He is tired of being strong. He sits down beside her and she glances at him. Wordlessly, she lifts her arm and he rests his head on her lap, closing his eyes. He feels her holding him, fingertips running along the length of his arm.

The two of them yawn in unison, their eyes lolling closed. _Food can wait_, he decides. _He should sleep first_, she rationalizes, her free hand toying absently with his hair.

He denies that he loves her as more than a friend, more than a partner. She denies that she feels the same.


	3. The Push In The Shove

**_AN: I have to admit, this prompt threw me because I've never felt able to relate to Jared Booth. He's always kinda pissed me off, aside from his gotcha moment in The Hero In The Hold. That was hot (Bren swinging that case was hotter). Anyway, I was on no sleep yesterday and maybe that let me write this without fussing over it, and I enjoy MY Jared._  
**

**_Speaking of that episode, I don't own the line of dialogue I borrowed.  
_**

**_Happy birthday (belated - thanks FF) to the lovely FaithinBones - a writing superstar and one of my favourite reviewers to chat with. I truly hope you enjoy it!  
_**

* * *

**TITLE: The Push In The Shove  
****TAG TO: Spoilers Through 7X13**  
**PROMPT: A birthday gift for FaithinBones: "Jared pays a visit to Booth while Brennan and Christine are still hiding from Pelant and the FBI and he tries to comfort Booth. Since they don't get along very well it could be very interesting."**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

He hears the news from Padme first, although friends of theirs begin to call soon after. Temperance Brennan, charged with murder, is on the run with her father and daughter. His niece. His brother's child. Jared knows he should pick up the phone, call Seeley and see if he's alright. But he knows he's not alright. How could he be?

Besides, he's just the fuck-up little brother of the honorable FBI Agent. The guy too stupid to realize his brother was head over heels for his partner, instead taking her out on a date and smack-talking his flesh and blood. And while they've made inroads in the last couple of years, their relationship is tentative at best.

So he doesn't call that first night, or the second one. Pops calls on the third night and gives him hell, and still, he cannot bring himself to pick up the phone and dial. Oh he's picked up the phone, clutching it like a talisman as he stares into space, struggling to construct words that will somehow be comforting. Padme finds him like this on the fourth day, his knuckles white.

"Honey, just call him," she whispers.

"You don't understand. This is Seeley."

"Help me understand," she urges, taking the phone from him. "I know you love him."

"Very much."

"He loves you, too. Looks out for you. So why is there such hesitation?"

Jared sighs. This is territory he hates exploring, territory he's covered with his addictions counselor on more than one occasion. It's a knife of guilt twisting in his guts, one Seeley has a knack for inadvertently driving deeper nearly every single time they cross paths.

"Because I became our father, the man he hates," Jared answers. "I did that after Seeley tried to shield me from the bastard. It was a huge slap in the face, and on top of it…" He shakes his head, the bile rising in his throat. "On top of it, I used to call him a loser. Someone who blocked his own shot."

Padme's hand reaches for his. "You didn't understand that he spent his life protecting everyone else, to the detriment of himself. That being the quiet hero is his redemption."

"Yeah…"

"But you know it now, Jared. Things are better. And no matter what you've done in the past, you're his brother, and he's alone."

Jared remembers loneliness. He remembers how Padme erased it from his life. Their lips meet gently, his hand tangled in her silky hair.

She's right, of course. Seeley will probably tell him to go to hell, but he should call. He should do something. But not tonight.

* * *

On the sixth day, Jared tries. He goes to their house, but finds only a surveillance team so painfully obvious, he is no longer surprised that Tempe's been charged on circumstantial bullshit. The FBI is lacking in the quality manpower these days, and as he learns from the Bureau, his brother is suspended pending review, meaning they're truly running on empty now.

He swings by the Jeffersonian, where he finds Cam quietly bawling in the corner of her office. Her uneaten lunch concerns him, but she explains that she can't keep food down anymore because of the guilt. He holds her for several minutes, trying to be the friend that Seeley would be. The friend Seeley currently isn't, because he refuses to accept Cam's apologetic calls.

"We have to be absolutely transparent," she sobs. "I hate it, but it's the only way we can clear her with any evidence we find."

"I get it," Jared replies. He doesn't fully get it, but he knows Cam's brilliant at what she does and that's enough to play along.

"You'll tell him?" she asks. "When you see him?"

"Of course, Cam."

And he will see his brother, because he is ignoring his phone calls, and Jared understands that he has to persist. Seeley would persist. He understands why Tempe went off on him years ago when he balked at breaking the law to save his life.

"_Booth_ _has NEVER turned his back on you! You are a selfish coward! And you never deserved him_!" They were the words she lodged in his skull, his wake-up call. He cannot turn his back now.

He talks to Hodgins, hoping that the help he provided with the Gravedigger bitch will earn him some help. Thankfully, it does: Hodgins knows where his brother is and is willing to grant access. At six in the evening, he parks in front of a beautiful house, one of the homes this Dr. Hodgins owns, and follows him inside.

Seeley is in front of the TV, staring blindly at a game show Jared knows he hates. He's not here. He's with Tempe and Christine. The loss has taken its toll already: his face is pale, eyes ringed in black and bloodshot.

_I really should have come sooner_.

Hodgins clears the room and here he is: one brother trying desperately to help another without the slightest clue how to do it. He finally decides to pull a chair over and sit beside him, for a start.

Seeley glances over at him, sighs, and sinks his head into his hands. "I'm not in the mood, Jared."

"For what?"

"Fighting with you. The little brother jabs. Anything. So if you're here to point out my failings and how I keep my head down and lose everything that I fight for, then do me a favour and walk back out that door. Because I can't do it."

Jared swallows his anger, because his brother is clearly devastated. _He can't do it_. He can't be his protector, his affable, self-sacrificing big brother that he enjoys teasing and pushing the buttons of.

Seeley needs… Seeley.

"I'm sorry they're gone," he begins. "Because it's not fair. Even I could see how much she loved you, all those years ago. You deserve happiness, with them. With Tempe. Not this, Seeley."

His brother is silent, and he takes this as a good sign. He remains alert anyway, in case he moves straight into an uppercut to his jaw.

"Look… I'm not good at this stuff. You've always been the one with the ability to see through people and know their feelings." Jared hesitates, his mind a mess of fragmented thoughts and fears. "I want to be the brother you've always been for me, but I suck at it, Seeley. But I'm trying."

"This isn't something that you can make okay, Jared," Seeley snaps. "Not unless you can find Bones and Christine, or find a way to nail Pelant's smug ass to a wall."

"I know I can't make it okay. I'm not stupid. Or maybe I am. Maybe I was stupid to even try this.. this… whatever."

Jared rises to his feet and takes five furious steps towards the door before halting. He's done it again. He's turned his back on his brother. But maybe he's beginning to appreciate that this is a dance for two, one that they know all the steps to.

"You know, Seeley, you've got to stop trying to do everything alone," Jared says.

"What?"

"You always tried to take on Dad alone," he begins. "You always try to fix my problems, instead of letting me make my own mistakes. You shut everyone out except maybe Tempe, and even then, you always run off alone to help her when she's in danger. And here you are, practically shoving me away, when now is the one time in your life you should definitely _not_ be alone!"

He's taken a huge chance here and it will end one of two ways: either Seeley will strangle him and throw him out the door, or he will finally let him in. Because he gets it now: Seeley always holds him at arm's length and he happily runs off, because it's so damn easy compared to this bitter fight through his brother's walls. When his brother finally looks at him, the tears welling up in his eyes are his answer.

"I don't want to talk about it," he says firmly.

"Whatever you need," Jared replies.

"I need a beer. I need five." He curses beneath his breath. "No, no I don't. That's not right to do to you—"

"Seeley, shut up. I'll be fine. I'm taking care of you, alright?"

He finds the kitchen nearby and brings back a single beer, the lid still intact. Just in case. His brother twists it off and drains half the bottle in a go, setting it down beside him.

"I think that crappy DEA show's on TV."

Jared groans. "What idiot signed off on that bullshit?"

"Probably Hacker," Seeley replies, shaking his head.

His brother flips the channel and sure enough, they're half an episode in on some major heroin bust. They quietly watch the reality show, shaking their heads in unison at the pathetic sound bites they've cobbled together to make the DEA look asinine.

At the next commercial break, Jared feels his brother's hand on his shoulder. He turns and finds a weak smile on Seeley's face.

"Thanks for coming over, Jared."

Jared grins. "It's what brothers do. I learned from the best."

"Damn right you did!"

They laugh, returning to their terrible TV programming, and Jared silently thanks Tempe, because without her words shoving him off his pedestal years ago, he would never understand what it takes to be Seeley Booth.


	4. Ideal Working Conditions

**TITLE: Ideal Working Conditions**  
**TAG TO: Between The Killer In The Crosshairs and The Blackout in the Blizzard**  
**PROMPT: For the lovely threesquares! "What if sometime before Booth and Brennan are together, during an author interview or book signing/Q&A session, in answer to a question or some other prompt, Brennan either knowingly or accidentally shares something about how she feels about Booth and Booth hears/sees?"**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

Booth sighed as he entered the book store, his headache kicking straight into high gear as the shrieking throngs of "Brennanites" greeted the arrival of their beloved author. _Goddamn Q&A signing crap_, he thought bitterly. He'd argued for a solid week for cancellation, but Bones wouldn't listen. She never listened when it came to her safety.

"Broadsky's still out there," he'd repeatedly reminded her. "I don't like you being out in the open like a sitting duck."

"My publishers are very insistent that I maintain my promotional schedule," she'd countered. "With _Bone of Contention_ being picked up for movie rights, they want to ensure the book stays on the bestseller list."

He'd yelled, shouted, offered bribes of food and alcohol, even appealed to the side of her that prized forensic anthropology over her writing career, but it was hopeless. She was stubborn and he was equal parts frustrated and turned on by it.

She looked beautiful, as always. Dark waves cascaded over her shoulders in sharp contrast to her cream-coloured blouse and the small slit in her skirt was just high enough to earn his approval. It also earned a whistle from the rear of the crowd. Annoyed, he marched over to the guilty party, tapped him on the shoulder and glared. The teenage boy recoiled, mumblings apologies.

"Yes, go ahead," the moderator prompted.

A twenty-something woman stepped up to the appointed mic and asked, in the most delicate of voices, "As a scientist mulling a simultaneous writing career, I wanted to ask: how do you balance your writing career with your work at the Jeffersonian and a personal life?"

Booth snorted to himself. _This should be entertaining_.

Bones furrowed her brow, considering this question. "Well, my work at the Jeffersonian is my number-one priority. My passion is anthropology, first and foremost. I know my editors aren't always appreciative when a chapter takes a backseat to a case, but for me, there's no contest: the dead deserve their voices being heard. My imaginary people can wait."

The crowd chuckled as the young woman prompted, "And where do family and friends fit in? Or love interests?"

"I'm fortunate that all of my friends work with me. That isn't typical, so I can't speak to an alternate arrangement. That said, I can't imagine a more satisfying and ideal scenario than working with the man you love. I suppose you'll have to ask another scientist-slash-author for more about that."

Booth's eyes widened as her publicist tapped her shoulder, whispering in her ear. _Did she just say that_? Unfazed by the whispers of "Andy Lister" in the audience, Bones asked for the next question.

"I suppose that confirms once and for all that Andy Lister and Seeley Booth are one and the same," the next fan stated loudly.

_Did she say she loved me? In public? _Booth was speechless. Who was this woman and what had she done with his partner?

In answer to the current query, Bones rolled her eyes. "I don't know why everyone believes that Andy is Booth. They're different people. I'm not Kathy Reichs. She's blonde. And Andy misses shots. Booth never misses. Booth's also funnier than Andy." She turned towards her publicist, visibly frustrated. "Why do they always think that?"

Booth was beginning to think the headache was a small price to pay to bear witness to her candor.

"Next question?" the publicist asked anxiously.

A question about the murders in the book. _Boring_. Not that her books were boring, but the question was rather… ignorant. Bones treated it as such and moved on, to his amusement. Questions about her plans for another novel, the inspiration for the plot… all basic stuff. He laughed hard when someone asked about which actors she'd like cast in the film.

"I don't watch many films, but my friend tells me that I should say 'anyone not in the _Twilight_ movies'. So I'll go with that. Next?"

The rest of the Q&A was pretty routine, save the last question. An older man – perhaps sixty – asked, in a gravelly voice, "What's the most important lesson you've learned in your career as an anthropologist?"

Without hesitation, she answered,"That although substances may be impervious, human beings shouldn't be. Otherwise, they risk a life of regret."

"Dr. Temperance Brennan, ladies and gentlemen!"

The crowd clapped and cheered and Booth winced, ducking out onto the street to avoid the autograph herd. Again and again, he replayed her words: "_I can't imagine a more satisfying and ideal scenario than working with the man you love_." Did he ask her about it? Or did he keep it to himself?

More importantly: was he ready for her answer?

A gust of wind reminded him that it was winter and hypothermia was a miserable experience. Reluctantly, he slipped back inside, maintaining his distance from the noisy line of waiting fans. He watched as some bastard tried to give her a rose and clenched his fists. _Back off, buddy_. Bones signed quickly, years of these things under her belt now. _Almost done… Almost_…

When the line hit ten people, he gave up and marched over to the table. He needed to hurry this crap along so he could find out just what she meant by this talk of regret and love and imperv-_whatever_.

"Hey Bones!"

She glanced up and grinned. "Booth! I'm almost done." Her pen moved fluidly and she handed back another copy of her book with a shy smile. "Thank you for coming."

"Good, because I'm starving," he lied. _Starving for truth, and perhaps a few shots to wash it down_.

She worked quickly, polite yet blatantly looking to escape. He hoped it was because she preferred to spend her time with him. Her last signature was a looping scrawl more than anything and she rose to her feet while closing the book.

"Thank you," she said politely. To Booth, she added, "When did you get here?"

And he froze. He _froze_! A perfect opening to the discussion he'd been plotting for forty-five minutes, and what did he do? He chickened out, of course.

"Oh, uh, not too long ago. You were already signing."

"That's too bad," she said. "I think this was my best question and answer session yet."

"I'm sure it was, Bones." He grinned, holding open the door for her.

Unseen to him, Brennan smiled to herself as she walked ahead. She'd felt him enter the store before seeing him near the back of the crowd. She'd known he was listening, and had taken advantage of it.

She followed him to his car, taking the passenger seat without protest. Her hand was too cramped to hold the wheel, anyway. Booth turned over the engine quickly, seemingly in a hurry to get somewhere.

"Ready, Bones?"

The slightly raised eyebrow betrayed his question as loaded. She was ready, alright. She was just waiting for him to catch up. With a subtle lick of her lips, she nodded.

"Absolutely."


	5. A Fool's Devotion

**_Title is taken from the lyrics of "I'm Looking Forward To Joining You, Finally" by Nine Inch Nails, which is kinda fitting for this one_**

**TITLE: A Fool's Devotion**  
**TAG TO: The Doctor In The Photo**  
**PROMPT: "The Doctor in the Photo - what if Booth hadn't shown up to get Brennan out of the way in time?"**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

He felt it before he knew it. A severed cord recoiled violently within him and suddenly, Booth was awake and gasping for air. His hand shot out immediately, snatching his cell phone off the bedside table.

"Seeley?" Hannah murmured.

He dialed her number as his heart battered against his ribs, seeking escape. _Trying to get to her_. Because something was very, very wrong. The call went to voicemail and he dialed again as he stood and frantically began pulling on his clothes.

"Seeley, what's wrong?"

The commotion had fully pulled Hannah from her slumber now, and Booth knew he should explain, but how could he? He didn't know the what or how or when or the goddamn where, but the who of the equation was Bones.

Voicemail. Again.

A hand reached for him and he shrugged it off, pulling a t-shirt over his head. _The lab_. He'd start there. Maybe she'd fallen and hit her head. She hadn't been sleeping properly. Or should he try the apartment? He threw the phone on speaker and dialed again, buttoning his jeans and pocketing his car keys.

Voicemail. _Again_.

"Is something wrong with Temperance?" Hannah asked quietly.

He nodded as he picked up his phone. "Yes. Something is very, _very_ wrong with Bones."

"Did she call—"

"I just know, Hannah!"

He regretted the angry outburst immediately, but he didn't have time for this. His heart was breaking in a way it never had before, an excruciating pain that made it difficult to breathe. Only one woman could do this to him, and she wasn't in his bedroom, half-dressed and petulant.

He made it halfway to his door before the phone rang, and for one moment, one stupid moment, he was certain it was nothing more than a nightmare. And then, reality came crashing in.

"Is this Seeley Booth?"

"Speaking."

"Mr. Booth, I'm calling you from George Washington University Hospital. You're listed as the emergency contact for Temperance Brennan?"

"What's wrong? Is she okay? What happ—"

"Mr. Booth, Ms. Brennan was involved in a hit and run accident this evening—"

"Is she okay? Is she?" Booth pleaded.

The nurse's words carved his heart out of his chest and spat on it.

"You should hurry."

* * *

They wouldn't let him see her.

They wouldn't let _him_ see _her_.

Booth regretted not bringing his gun. He regretted ignoring his instincts, the ones that screamed that Bones was in no condition to be left alone tonight. But Hannah had phoned and reminded him that he'd promised to be home at a somewhat reasonable hour for a change, and he'd buckled, because he loved her. And he did love Hannah; he knew that was true.

But she would never be Bones. Could never be her. He was an idiot for ever believing he could move on.

She was in surgery, but they wouldn't tell him which OR. She had severe head injuries and a broken leg. He'd demanded to put on the blue scrubs and hat thing and join them in the OR, but had been denied. No one would allow him to atone for his failure and he was about to break.

Hannah was around somewhere. Cam, Angela, Hodgins – they'd all gathered here, waiting for word of her condition. Booth was tired of waiting. He needed her. He needed his Bones. And this doctor right here, coming down this damn hallway, was going to make it happen.

"Mr. Booth, you can't be here—"

"Agent Booth. As in FBI, which means I will do whatever the hell I want until you take me to my partner!" Booth snapped. "Where is she?"

"Temperance is in recovery now, but she's not stable—"

"Where?"

"Agent Booth—"

"Where the hell is she?" he yelled, startling the nurses at the end of the hall. "Why won't you let me see her? She needs me!"

"Given her critical condition, you'll have to wait until she is returned to the ICU. For now, access is restricted to immediate family—"

"There is _no one_ more immediate than me," Booth snarled, feeling his hands clenching. "I _am_ her family."

The doctor edged back a step. "You must understand, as a man of the law, that—"

"And you must understand, given that wedding band on your finger, that keeping me from the woman I love is bullshit!"

The floodgates opened and he slumped against the wall, his body wracked with sobs. He was her goddamn emergency contact. Why was it suddenly not enough? Why hadn't she been enough for him? He thought back to the shooting at the Checkerbox and his faked death, and remembered: the only reason they'd pulled it off was because of a loophole to lock Bones out of the recovery room and OR. What an ironic knife in the back this was.

Lost in his grief, he didn't notice the distraught blonde at the end of the hall turning around and walking away, finally knowing the truth she'd long suspected.

* * *

"Seeley Booth?"

He glanced up from the ground and found a woman in surgical scrubs standing over him. "Yeah. Where's Bones? Please, I have to see her. I have to."

"Come quietly," she said.

He followed her down the corridor, the movement making him aware of how numb his ass was from sitting on the ground. He realized that he had no idea how long he'd been there. Time was meaningless now: too little time with her, too much time wasted…

"In here, quickly," she said, ushering him into a room at the end of the hall.

He recognized this place from his many stints in the ER, both professionally and personally: the recovery room. Curtains separated patients on gurneys, the scent of blood and chemicals in the air. The doctor held up a hand, stopping him from proceeding further.

"She's due to be moved in thirty minutes, but you can have five now," she said. "Normally, I don't violate protocols, but when I saw you, I knew who you were."

"I don't understand—"

"She's not truly awake, but she's been talking. Begging, really. Keep that in mind."

He heard it then, a faint whisper from the end of the row: "Booth… Booth…"

"Five minutes," she reminded him firmly before disappearing back into the corridor.

He forced himself not to run, walking briskly towards the plaintive cry that continued to echo. His heart broke as he rounded the final curtain and found her. She looked so _small_, her body lost in a swarm of monitors, machines and tubes. Her leg was in traction, her arms a mess of gauze and tape. But it was her face that brought the tears anew, the purples and blues marring her features and the eyes swollen shut. Her lips were scabbed over – small cuts, one stitch between them all – and they moved, endless calling his name.

"Booth… Booth… _Booth_…"

"I'm here," he whispered, edging closer. "I'm here, Bones. Please hear me…. God…"

This was his fault. He wasn't there for her. He'd had a terrible feeling all day long and yet, he'd obediently run off to Hannah after she complained on the phone.

_Hannah_. God, what was he going to do about her? Because standing here now, staring at the battered body of his partner, he could no longer run from his heart. He belonged here, with her.

"Booth… _please_…"

"I'm here." He leaned over, gently pressing his lips to hers. "I love you. I'm here."

Bones sighed in seeming relief, the constant chanting subsiding, and he was grateful that she knew he'd come for her. There would be a lot to talk about over the next few days, with more than one woman in his life. But right now, he had one priority: Bones. His Bones. She needed him, and he was here.

Yes, this was where he belonged.


	6. Stalking Seeley Booth

**_AN: To say this prompt was a challenge... well, that's an understatement! Yet I had to, given my Twitter addiction. razztaztic has a hilarious collection of stories taking place by text, called 160 characters or less. Read it if you haven't already! _  
**

**_Oh, and since it's already been asked: at this point, I have no intention on continuing A Fool's Devotion. You never know with me, though. I wrote a one-shot once for a contest and it became 40 chapters plus outtakes and a future-take... I am working on another prompt for Doctor in the Photo but I figured we needed an angst break.  
_**

* * *

**Title: Stalking Seeley Booth  
Tag To: Spoilers through The Change In The Game  
Prompt: "What if Booth decided to use twitter as a way of making vague comments about B&B's future?"  
Rating: T**

* * *

It had become a ritual now, and perhaps it was a little obsessive, but it was impossible to resist. It was also nearly impossible to keep it a secret, which was why Angela was sitting in the bathroom stall with her cell phone, having complained of stomach upset due to Baby Hodgins. Speaking of, that excuse wasn't going to last much longer; she was only nine weeks from the projected finish line, although she felt at least ten months pregnant. She missed her feet, missed caffeine and missed having a bladder larger than a thimble.

At least there was good ol' _Flyerz71_ to keep her entertained in her whale trimester.

Opening her Twitter app, she jumped to his profile, eagerly awaiting today's little insight or smart-assed remark. Luckily, she was not disappointed.

**Maybe fighting honesty w/ honesty ='s sparks…**

"Right you are, Studly," Angela whispered.

She'd discovered that her favourite G-Man kept a Twitter account several months ago, shortly before he and Hannah bit the dust. As luck would have it – or fate – he'd popped up in the 'Who To Follow' box. Apparently, they followed a lot of the same accounts, including the fake Bill Clinton account that made her giggle-snort against her will. Scrolling through his profile page, she immediately sensed that she knew _Flyerz71 _very well.

**WTF is this? C I hate u.**

**Does tweeting make u a twat?**

**Found Delphinus last nite. Depressed me. Dunno why.**

**Some ppl need both legs broken 2 stay outta trouble! Yeesh!**

She couldn't add him, of course; she was _Angelatron69_ on the site. Not exactly stealth. So she manually checked every few days, looking for the latest insights into his mind. While most of his tweets were sports-related and banter with _CharlieWhores_ (oh so funny, only not, Charlie), every few days, he'd let something slip.

For starters, he tweeted a lot about Delphinus. He mentioned Venus and Jupiter rather frequently, often in strange juxtapositions that betrayed their usage as code names. Little hints and glimpses spoke of their cases in just the right measure to confirm her assumptions.

During the Eames case, the sporadic musings took to more frequent pondering. A part of Angela thought she should share her insights with Bren, but that would have shut Booth down. She'd never keep quiet about it, and he'd know someone had found him. So Angela kept her secret from everyone, even her husband. She watched as three days unfolded painfully, dismissing her crying by the end as hormonal.

**Something's wrong in Jupiter's orbit. Her centre of gravity's gone.**

"**Jupiter from on high smiles at the perjuries of lovers." – Ovid**

**Thx for the quote, CharlieWhores. Fitting. Now shut up.**

**Seeing ur life in a mirror… yeah. Not fun.**

**She's hiding. Why won't she let me find her?**

**I have a bad feeling... Venus is orbiting, but I can't see it. I see Jupiter growing dim.**

**I broke her. Fuck, I'm an ass. **

**Can't sleep. Just drive. **

**Screw u, Big 100.3! Foreigner? Srsly? Kill me.**

Bren had told her everything, had confessed her humiliation and loss over a bottle of wine (hers) and sparkling water (Angela's). It was so cruel. Hannah was an okay woman, but she was ruining everything. Booth was ruining everything, and he _knew_ he was!

Looking back now through his old posts, she smiled again. Things had improved once Hannah was gone, slowly but surely. Little comments about the colour blue, or mentions of fate and destiny. Angela waited patiently through the weeks, amused by the kindled fire between the partners glowing brighter than ever before.

**Should be criminal to look that good in yoga pants. Should arrest her.**

**Everything's better through blue-coloured glasses…**

**Wishes… Maybe shoulda done that last year. Stupid Baby Duck. **

**Private ocean view every day at the Royal… Beauty in blue.**

**OMG boring lecture! Things I do for her…**

**Feet. Gross. I hate my job.**

**Sherman's a dead man. Find my foot up your ass, buddy!**

Angela snickered. Jealous Booth was always fun. She missed the days of him interrogating all of Bren's boys. Too bad he didn't have Twitter during the Sully days!

With a groan, Angela pushed herself back up to her feet. Time to work another day. She could spy on her friends' burgeoning love affair tomorrow.

* * *

Somehow, she forgot about her little indulgence. The stress and fear about the baby's eyesight, the abused young girl who'd arrived covered in blood, and Vincent… God, Vincent. Her heart was still broken. And then, there was the whole pushing out a baby in the agonizing miracle of childbirth… She'd been so consumed by life and jabbing at Bren for details of her Booth hook-up that she'd forgotten to go check out the other side of the story.

But now, lying in her hospital bed with Jack and Michael asleep nearby, she returned to her old habits, curious for a fix. She scrolled down quickly, seeking out the last missive she recognized, and started from there.

**She'd be the best mom. Wish she saw it.**

**Hot Blooded came on the radio at the dentist. Not good. Bad thoughts, 'nuff said.**

**She doesn't get that she's not actually Jupiter. She's fragile.**

**All my fault. Never get my hands clean…**

**One room away. Feels like miles.**

**Men are from Mars, Women are from Jupiter. Much better.**

"Oh snap!" Angela murmured. Booth was obviously thrilled with their evolving relationship.

**Happy. Just fucking happy! Get over it, CharlieWhores!**

**My legs are getting broken when he's outta the chair. Crap.**

Angela snickered at the posting from the day before. Apparently Max had caught on to the fact that the partners were… well, _partners_. And he wasn't wrong.

She was just about to close out when the 'New Tweets Available' message displayed. _Hmm… What's Booth doing up so late? Maybe a little one-on-one with his partner?_ She refreshed the page, grinning to herself. That is, until she read the message.

"What?"

Hodgins startled beside her, leaping to his feet. "Angie, what's wrong? Are you in pain? Should I get the doctor?"

"Get the doctor alright – for Bren!" Angela shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe she didn't tell me! We're best friends!"

"Tell you what? That she and Booth are obviously making out in her office every day?" Hodgins asked, chuckling to himself.

"No, _this_!" She turned her phone around, showing her husband the reason for her annoyance.

"Dude…"

"Yeah. Dude, indeed!"

**Gonna be a father again! Cloud nine! Perfect life.**

"This soon? Well, they've never been great with timing," Hodgins joked.

"I disagree," Angela replied, turning off her phone. "I think they finally got it just right."


	7. Some Kind Of Sign

_**A little long, only because I wanted to set the stage with the discussion... You know, the one that gave me heartfail? *wince* All dialogue belongs to Bones and its writers and is strictly used for context. Lyrics belong to Foreigner, of course. Disclaim, disclaim!**_

**Title: Some Kind Of Sign  
Tag To: The Doctor In The Photo  
Prompt: "What if 'Hot Blooded' had've come on the radio when Brennan was talking to Booth in the car in The Doctor in the Photo?"  
Rating: T**

* * *

"Let me take you home. Come on!"

She followed him to his car, keeping herself just a step behind his pace. She understood now. She understood what the universe was trying to tell her. _I have to take risks. I have to open myself up or I'll die alone, with regrets_. Her biggest regret had been staring her in the face for months, every smile of a certain blonde striking her as she imagined a knee would feel to the kidney.

He held open her door and for once, she didn't chastise him for it. She simply smiled and slid into her seat, shaking her hair lightly. The streetlights accented the falling droplets of water and these, too, seemed meaningful. Beautiful. Like love could be. Like life could be, if she stopped locking her emotions away as if they were the criminals she and Booth pursued.

"Maybe you just need a couple days off."

His words startled her, and she glanced over at Booth. She'd worried him enough that he'd followed her tonight. She hated when he worried.

"I'm alright now. Except I…" She paused, mulling her words carefully. "I made a mistake."

"No, I told you my opinion. I mean, you got it right."

_I got it all wrong. Last year, I was wrong. But I'm learning._

"Not everything. She died with regrets."

Booth gave her a strange look – fleeting, yet discernible. Did he know what she needed to tell him? Could he read her like he read everyone else?

"Come on, Bones. Everybody has regrets," he said.

"I heard her, you know?" The moment she'd said it, she knew how crazy it sounded. She moved on. "Micah says that all we get are these dim, static-y messages from the universe."

"Who is this Micah guy?" _Jealousy_? She found this confusing.

"The night watchman. But he attends a lot of lectures. Anyway, the point is…"

She paused as she recalled that night clearly: the warmth of his lips on hers; the way her heart fluttered; the desire to invite him home colliding with the sudden dread that if she did, he'd leave her the next morning, or the next week, claiming their partnership ruined. She understood now that she loved him so fiercely, she'd dared not risk hurting him with a clumsy error in a romantic commitment. It was foolish. _I had nothing to lose that night, and everything to gain_.

"She never gave him a chance," she finished at last.

"Micah."

Maybe she was learning to read people. Booth seemed anxious, as if he were purposely dancing around her impending confession. She didn't know how to interpret that. She knew only that the greatest respect she could show Lauren Eames would be to not repeat her mistakes.

"No, the helicopter pilot," she clarified. "He offered himself to her, but she never gave him a chance. That was her regret." Summoning all of her courage, she blurted out, "I got the signal, Booth. I don't want to have any regrets."

She immediately knew that she'd made a mistake. _Again_. How utterly foolish! His pain was evident as she waited for the rejection she knew was coming.

"You know, I'm with someone, Bones. And Hannah – she's not a consolation prize. I love her."

Inside, she felt something give way. She couldn't articulate what it was, aside from a barrier. A metaphorical wall of some kind came crashing down and she began to weep, to mourn her loss. Because Booth's love was a tremendous thing to lose. And when he spoke again, he was firm, yet caring. Loving even as he destroyed her hope. It was so very Booth-y.

"The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but those are the facts."

_Get it together. You can do this. _She willed her crying to cease, promising herself a respite when she returned home. Pain was private. _Don't let them see you cry_. All of the foster kids whispered it as a mantra. It was self-preservation: the weak were always culled from the herd. Children were no different than cattle in the system.

"I understand. I missed my chance." She laughed unwittingly, recalling Micah's recounting of the vision experiment. "My whole world turned upside down. I can adjust."

"I did."

"Yes, you did."

"Do you want me to call someone to be with you?" he asked.

Of course he'd ask. In the past, he would offer to be there, but now… He could never be there again. Not like before. Not in this messy triangle she'd created.

"No, I'm fine. Alone." This sounded angry to her, bitter even, so she quickly added, "Thanks"

And she was fine alone. She'd been fine for years. She could compartmentalize this and be professional and move on, just as he had. He deserved happiness, however he'd found it. As for her own… Well, she'd simply have to find her joy in work and friendship. There was nothing wrong with that.

The car had grown terribly claustrophobic, the two of them sitting in silence. There was a good fifteen minute drive ahead, and the loss of their once easy conversation left Brennan's stomach turning. Without asking, she turned on the radio and leaned her head on the window beside her. The station was on commercial, but Booth didn't flip the channel as he usually did. His hands remained tightly on the wheel, his knuckles gleaming white in the darkness.

_I shouldn't have said anything yet. I should have carefully calculated a time and place, prepared a speech that respected Hannah's place in his life_. Hopefully, he would accept an apology later on. For now, she had to remain strong. And in hindsight, she knew she could have maintained that stoic mask if the worst thing that could have possibly occurred hadn't gone ahead and happened.

Hot Blooded. Their song. On the radio.

A kaleidoscope of memories played out: her apartment, years ago, singing and joking; an explosion; that silly rock camp… She wanted to destroy the radio. She wanted to go to the station and punch the DJ in the jaw, as irrational as it would be to blame him. And yet, she couldn't make the move to simply change the station. It was _their_ _song_. Booth called it _their song_. Was this another signal, literally borne via static?

"_Well, I'm hot blooded! Check it and see…_"

"Son of a bitch," Booth muttered beneath his breath.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't stay here and risk him taking their song back. It was all she had left.

"Pull over," she demanded.

"What?"

"Pull over!" she pleaded, her fingers fumbling with the lock on the door.

"Bones, I'm not leaving you in the middle of nowhere!"

And the radio played on: "_You don't have to read my mind to know what I have in mind_…"

"Goddamn it, Booth! Pull over or I'll jump from this damn car!"

Her hand gripped the release and a part of her wanted to laugh, because wasn't this what Lauren had done? Dangling out of helicopters to feel something more than agony?

"Bones, please—"

"I mean it!"

"_Let me lay it on the line…_"

Her hand pushed the door open, Booth hitting the brakes with a violent jerk in response. Without another word, she jumped out onto the street and began to run. From him. From the music. From her traitorous heart that had taken control of her brain.

"Bones!"

She heard a door open and slam and cursed him for pursuing her. Why couldn't he let her just go? She was a grown woman, perfectly capable of hailing a cab and getting herself home. Why did he have to do this?

"Stop!"

"Go home, Booth!" she yelled, her fists pumping at her sides. _Just leave me. You're good at it_.

He was closing in, and she was furious. She should have eaten better today. She wouldn't be this dizzy. When his hand gripped her arm, she hissed angrily. His very touch _hurt_. She didn't want it. Not now.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, furious. "You can't run around on this street at this time of night."

"I can do whatever the hell I want. I'm an adult, Booth." She stuck her chin out, defiant. "Get back in your car and go home. Hannah's waiting."

"Don't you do that!" he snapped. "Don't you hold that against me. I _told you_ I would have to move on."

"What, a whole two minutes later? Some great, lasting love!" The venom rose within her and she was powerless to censor it. "I told you that I didn't have your heart. I don't make these decisions easily! You of all people know that."

She yanked her arm free and began walking briskly, Booth matching her step for step. A part of her wanted to hit him. A part of her wanted to kiss him, to catch him as off guard and unprepared as she'd been that night outside the Hoover.

"This isn't easy for me," he said. "Hurting you is the last thing I ever wanted."

"We don't always get what we want in life, do we?"

She never did. Not when it came to people, to human bonds. It was why she'd closed herself off in the first place.

He seized her by the arm once more, pulling her to a stop beneath a streetlight. Illuminated, she could clearly see the tears in his eyes. She winced at the sight. How had this night gone so very wrong? How had they gone so wrong?

A car approached, music blaring from its open windows. She couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry.

"_You've got to give me a sign. Come on girl, some kind of sign_…"

"When did you change your mind?" Booth whispered.

"It doesn't matter now—"

"It matters to me, Bones. Please…"

She sighed, unable to look him in the eye. "In Maluku. I came home, thinking… Something slow. Very slow. But…"

"Hannah."

"Hannah," she echoed. "And I decided that it didn't matter, that I was fine. But I wasn't fine. I'm _not _fine, Booth."

They remained motionless, their bodies scant inches apart. His hand remained on her wrist, his flesh scalding hers. She wanted him. She couldn't have him. She would adjust.

"Let me go," she said gently.

"Bones, I—"

"I'm not the woman you've chosen. Let me go. _Please_."

He released her slowly and she immediately approached the curb, flagging a taxi down the street. He waited quietly for the vehicle to come to a stop, waited for her to slip inside.

"Text me when you get home," he said.

"No."

She turned away from him, instructing the driver and sinking into the musty seat.

* * *

She'd only just managed to drift to sleep when the knocking began. At first, she thought it was the pipes acting up again, which concerned her as she'd never mastered plumbing under Booth's flawed tutelage and there would be a lot of paperwork in the morning. Her squinting eye glanced at the alarm clock as the knocking grew louder. _4:47_. Who would knock at this time of—

_Booth would_.

She angrily threw off her covers, stomping to the door in her tank top and drawstring pants. The door was pounded again, three sharp taps, followed by a familiar voice.

"Bones, open up!"

Leaving the chain in place, she opened the door with a glare. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You didn't text."

"I said I wouldn't." Her voice softened slightly as she took in his rumpled clothing and red eyes.

"I didn't think you meant it! You always text me… " His voice trailed off as he echoed her thoughts. "Used to. When we were… "

She nodded sadly. _Before Hannah_.

"Go home, Booth. I'm fine. I just need sleep."

She moved to shut the door and jumped as his hand shot into the gap.

"Please… I need to come in."

It was unfair of him to take advantage this way. He knew she would do anything for him if he asked in earnest, and the man before her was desperate and sad. With a reluctant nod she removed the chain and allowed him inside.

"Um, Bones?"

She sighed. The living room was… broken. Like her. She hadn't been expecting company, so she'd left the smashed dishes and chair precisely where they'd fallen in her homecoming fury.

"It's fine. Why did you feel the need to barge over here at nearly five in the morning?"

"It followed me all day," he began. "In the diner, when I grabbed lunch. In the gas station, when I went in to grab a coffee. And then you… The radio…"

"I don't understand."

"Our song. It's been everywhere. I went home and turned on the TV, put on Adult Swim. It's the freaking _Aqua Teen Hunger Force_, talking about Foreigner. I flip the channel and there's a commercial for some compilation of 80s songs and what's playing? Foreigner."

_Our song. He called it our song_. She shook her head sadly, edging backwards as if distance would somehow shield her from his words.

"Booth—"

"Maybe I'm the one getting the signals tonight," he whispered. "I mean, I took them that way."

He reached towards her, fingertips trailing along her jaw, and she fought back a sob. This was so cruel. He wasn't hers. Why was he doing this?

"I can't do this." She reached for his hand, dropping it to his side. "You can't just walk in here and say things and do that, not after tonight. Not after what you've said—"

"I told Hannah it's over."

Her stomach lurched. "What?"

Booth nodded, edging closer. "You can't ignore that many signs."

"It's a song—"

"I was waiting around all night, watching over you," he interjected. "My priority is you. It's always you. I love Hannah, but it's not… us."

She swiped angrily at the tears brimming in her eyes, struggling to make sense of him. Was he saying they _hadn't_ missed their chance? Did he still love her?

"Bones, say something," he pleaded.

"What should I say?" At his confused look, she added, "I'm not being facetious or cold. I really don't know what to do. I don't know how these things work!"

"Did you still want… a chance?" It was a tentative question, but sincere.

"And if I said no? Would you go back to Hannah?"

"Not a chance of that."

He meant it. That was enough for her heart to silence her brain. Without a word, she took his hand and led him down the hall to her bedroom.

"Bones?"

"I'm so tired," she confessed. "I need sleep. You need sleep."

He relaxed, stripping off his coat and shoes inside the door before joining her in the bed. He pulled her to him, her head coming to rest on his chest. She could hear his heart pounding, hear the acceleration as she drew closer. It was soothing to know that he was affected by her.

"Booth?"

"Hmm?"

"What happens in the morning?"

She felt his lips press to her head, felt him sigh against her. "We wake up and be us."

"Us?"

"You and me. Partners. Evolving."

"Evolution is a very slow process," she remarked, yawning.

"A little faster than evolution then, but not too fast. Okay?"

"Okay."

Her last waking thought, as she closed her eyes: _Everything's right side up._


	8. You've Begun To Feel Like Home

_**Title is a lyric from "Look After You" by The Fray. Perfectly Booth, if you ask me. I of course do not own the movie dialogue quoted from The Grapes Of Wrath.**_

**Title: You've Begun To Feel Like Home**  
**Tag To: Two Bodies In The Lab**  
**Prompt: For NCISVILLE, a 'what happened next': "Two bodies in the lab - the end scene when Bones ditched her date and stays with Booth at the hospital."**  
**Rating: K+**

* * *

The moment she walked out the door for her date, he wanted to scream at her to come back. To stay. To just _be with him_ in this room reeking of antiseptic and a twinge of his own blood. He knew it wasn't fair. She was his partner and she had a personal life he'd interfered with for days. And yet, he wanted her to stay anyway.

He flipped the channel and smiled wistfully. _The Grapes Of Wrath _was secretly one of his favourite movies, although he'd never admit it to anyone else. He wondered if Bones had seen it. How she'd managed to go this long in life without seeing so many great movies and TV shows, he'd never understand. Hadn't she ever wanted to escape from her own head and be somewhere else?

And suddenly, she was in front of him, still stunning in her dress.

"I rescheduled," she said, her hand gesturing absently to her bandage. "My-My head still hurts."

_A lie_. She was terrible at deception. Her straightforward nature made her incredibly uncomfortable whenever she tried, her stuttered words a blatant 'tell'. He was too grateful to challenge her.

"You can watch TV, if you like."

He smiled even though he was terrified inside. _Please stay. Just for a while. I need to know you're safe tonight_.

"Sure."

She settled back into the chair where she'd already kept an hour's vigil, her eyes drawn to the screen. She leaned back onto the bed beside him and he winced in agony.

"Bones?"

She glanced over, realizing what she'd done and immediately retreated, for which he thanked her. But she didn't _entirely_ retreat: her body still leaned towards his in the chair. For inexplicable reasons, this made him happy.

On the screen, Tom Joad was delivering one of his most memorable lines: "_Wherever you can look - wherever there's a fight, so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever there's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad. I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry and they know supper's ready, and when the people are eatin' the stuff they raise and livin' in the houses they build - I'll be there, too_."

"I don't understand," Bones whispered, echoing Tom's mother on screen.

"He's telling her that no matter what happens to him, a piece of him remains with her. In spirit," he explained.

"Like a ghost, you mean."

"Yeah, Bones. One that's drawn to the injustices that his people have experienced, and to the joys as well." He glanced over at her confused expression. "Have you ever seen this movie?"

"Yes, but this part never made sense to me," she replied. "Because ghosts don't exist, Booth. And if they did, how could a person inhabit a fight between police and a man? Even he doesn't know what he means. He just said so."

Booth sighed. These were the moments where she frustrated the hell out of him, and not even the Oxycontin was going to ease this headache.

"No one knows what comes after this life for certain, Bones. What I believe is that when we die, we can still hear those we love, still be there for them in times of need. He wants his mother to know that if he dies, she'll know, one way or another. He'll still be around for her."

She considered this silently, her eyes drawn to the screen and the film's final moments. Booth studied her face, pained by the large bandage on her forehead. _It shouldn't have happened_, he thought angrily. _I should have realized it was an inside job. I shouldn't have trusted anyone else with her_. She was his partner, his to protect. If he hadn't been on time…

"Booth?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you believe that you would be around, if anything happened to you?"

It was a pensive question, her voice shy and small. He was impressed: she hadn't launched immediately into her derision towards the church and God, as she tended to do.

With a grin, he nodded. "Of course. I'd be checking up on Parker and Pops and Jared and you—"

"Me?" Her brow furrowed. "Why me?"

"Because you're my partner, Bones," he replied sleepily. "And partners look out for each other."

_Because I can't stop myself from watching over you. Because as much as I deny it, I'm still drawn to you for reasons I can't find, no matter how hard I try_.

"While I don't accept your premise of an afterlife, I appreciate your concern." The corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly as she added, "I'm grateful you're my partner, Booth."

It was the best answer he'd ever get out of her, and Booth accepted it. The painkillers were beginning to do their number on him and while the relief was welcome, the fear began clawing at his insides anew. _What if something happens when she leaves_? _I can't protect her from here_.

"Bones? Can you do me a favour?" he asked. "No, no wait – two favours?"

"What are they?"

"Don't go home alone tonight," he said, immediately angry with himself at the opening he'd left for _David_. "I mean, call Angela. Stay with her."

"Booth, I'm going to be fine–"

"Indulge the blown up guy, alright?" He shifted in the bed, regretting it as pain shot through his arm.

"Fine," she grumbled. "And the second?"

"Stay. Until I sleep… I just…" His eyes fluttered and he fought against the drugs harder. "Need to know you're safe. I…"

"Shh." Her hand reached out, her fingers grazing his. "I'll wait for you to sleep."

"Thanks, Bones."

He was nearly asleep, the fog in his brain growing thick, when he heard her shift in the chair beside him. Her breath hitched slightly, and for a moment, he wondered if something was wrong. For the life of him, he couldn't open his eyes beyond a slit.

"Booth?"

"Mmm?"

"Please don't run off like Tom Joad. I'd rather know you're here because you're here. Alive."

"I'll try, Bones," he mumbled.

His heart pounded as he felt her lips press lightly to his cheek. "Thank you. For today. For every day."

He wanted to answer her, wanted to thank her for forgiving him and agreeing to work at his side. Instead, medicated sleep claimed him, his hand held gently by his partner. His Bones. The woman who, unbeknownst to him, silently cried tears of relief by his side before calling her best friend, as promised.


	9. Youth Without Youth

**_I do not own the (ridiculous) lyrics to "Steal My Sunshine" by Len, nor do I own the lyrics to "Youth Without Youth" by Metric. I do have interesting thoughts while listening to music, sometimes, and some of them result in writing. This would be one of those cases. A thought struck me and from there, a fun, sweet fic bloomed. Hopefully, you enjoy it.  
_**

**TITLE: Youth Without Youth**  
**TAG TO: Post-7X13, Post 8X1 **  
**PROMPT: _Inspired by the Metric song the title's taken from. _To console Sweets after a nasty fight with Daisy, the gang assembles to get him drunk… and Angela has a brilliant idea for late-night recreation.**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

****"_Youth without youth _  
_Born without time_  
_Youth without youth_  
_Can you read my mind?_"  
Youth Without Youth - Metric

* * *

"To beer!" Sweets slurred, raising his bottle with a giggle.

Hodgins clinked his bottle with his own. "To alcohol!"

Booth snickered as Bones leaned across his lap, her glass outstretched. "Me! Toasting!"

Sweets grinned, gently tapping her wine glass with the bottle. "Toast, Dr. Brennan?"

"To the lack of annoying ass-kissing here tonight! And Chardonnay! And my Dad, who is minding our daughter so I don't have to!"

"Anything else, Bones?" Booth teased.

Her face was flushed, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "To my Dad watching Christine at _his place_."

Angela giggled. "I'll drink to that!" She winked at Jack. "I love our son, but it's so nice to have an adult night."

"Nooooooo mushy crap!" Sweets protested, chugging his beer. "I'm single, remember?"

"Look man, I offered to call up that hottie Wendell suggested, but you wanted to give your relationship with Daisy a proper Irish Wake," Jack countered. "But he has a point. We're supposed to be drowning his sorrows, not adding to them."

Booth pulled another bottle from the cooler beside them, cracking it open. He wasn't certain when it happened – he assumed while he was grilling their dinner – but their little group had gone for broke and managed to get plastered without him. And while he certainly had a great buzz going, Bones was… well, she'd needed help standing up twice already. She was also lounging with her legs sprawled across his lap, and while he _definitely_ wasn't complaining, it was the wine at work, without question.

Sweets, though… He was beyond plastered. _Kid needs it_, he thought. After the knock-down fight he'd had with his ex-girlfriend (for now; who knew with those two?), he'd called Hodgins and suggested that this Friday night, they get the kid good and drunk. With a call to Max, who'd happily agreed to take Michael and Christine for the night, their drunken debauchery was locked into their schedules. They'd all agreed to turn off their phones except Angela, the only one with enough restraint to only answer the phone for child-related emergencies.

Speaking of Angela, she had appeared with another bottle of wine and Bones was clapping excitedly. _Oh man, she is going to be so hungover_! He was now wishing he hadn't relinquished his phone; this was prime video footage waiting to happen.

"Praise Dionysus!" Angela cheered, refilling her own glass next.

"Cam shoulda come," Hodgins said. "Why'd she ditch us?"

"Flu, remember?" Booth said. "Not exactly a good mix."

"Oh well! More for us!" Sweets cheered, slamming his empty beer down on the table. "There is more, right?"

Booth glanced over at the cooler. "Yup. Two more."

"Dibs!" Sweets shouted, scrambling across the floor and plunging his hand into the slushy water. "Brr!"

"Baby Duck doesn't like swimming in frigid water," Bones teased.

"I'm not a baby!" Sweets retorted petulantly. "I'm a man! And if Daisy can't see that, she can… she can…"

"Go to hell?" Angela suggested cheerfully.

"Go to hell! Yeah!" Sweets echoed, cracking open what was his tenth beer – or eleventh; Booth had lost count.

Hodgins gestured for the final beer and Booth tossed it to him, groaning unwittingly as his gorgeous partner decided to outright sit in his lap, wiggling against his groin. Truly drunk Bones was a rare sight to behold, but what a sight it was! His left arm wrapped supportively around her waist and she turned back, kissing his forehead quickly.

"You're our Baby Duck," she insisted to Sweets. "It's complimentary. You're family."

The psychologist had long checked out and in his place was the goofy overgrown kid. He was beaming as he shrugged and accepted this explanation. They really were a dysfunctional family, the entire lot of them. Booth had long given up on fighting it. _Well, I fought Daisy and always will, but Sweets is alright_. He knocked back the rest of his beer quickly as Angela reached for the stereo remote and turned up the volume.

"I love this song!" she exclaimed, stumbling to her feet.

"Me too!" Sweets shouted. "It's my jam!"

"Everything's your jam, Sweets," Hodgins snarked.

Booth groaned as Angela pulled Sweets to his feet, insisting that he dance, because he knew whom she'd be yanking on next: his partner. And if Bones got up, he'd have to get up, and frankly, he was quite happy to stay here with her grinding her ass on him.

"Woo woo!" Bones cheered, giggling as Angela yanked her up next. Her wine sloshed precariously close to the edge of the glass but was contained, and Booth wondered if this was a skill her friend had helped her perfect.

"_I know! It's up! For me!_" Sweets sang along.

"_If you steal my sunshine_!" Bones chimed in, stunning Angela.

"That's my line!" Angela pouted.

Hodgins sighed, glancing over at Booth. "It's inevitable, man."

The two of them rose reluctantly, relieved that both women had become determined to dance Sweets around the sprawling living room of the Hodgins estate. They'd opted for the mansion for their shenanigans, reasoning that things might get a little… loud. And they certainly were getting loud now, as Angela blasted the volume higher.

"_I was frying on the bench slide in the park across the street. L-A-T-E-R that week!_" Angela sang, twirling Sweets around.

"_My sticky paws were into making straws out of big fat slurpy treats_!" Sweets chimed in, stumbling into Bones.

To Booth's shock, she grinned and hip-checked the doctor. "_An incredible eight feet heap_!"

"Woohoo!" Angela cheered.

"Dude, this is not happening, is it?" Hodgins muttered.

"I…. I'm obviously drunk," Booth replied. "Or I have another brain tumor."

The three of them sang along with the rest of the song, the pinnacle of which was Angela and Bones grinding on each other and chugging the rest of their wine. Booth began silently reciting saints before he dragged her off into one of the twenty bedrooms and ravaged her against a wall. He was almost back down from half-mast when he was yanked onto the designated dance floor by a wobbly Bones.

"I know this song!" she happily announced.

So did he. Who didn't know Stealer's Wheel? The song's lyrics came to life as Sweets literally belted out the song between the dancing couples. Booth was stunned by the brazen flirting of his partner, which included a well-placed nip to his neck and a sliding palm across a problem he no longer had under control.

"I need air!" Sweets announced halfway through the song. "Is there air we can have?"

"There's air everywhere," Bones countered, still Squinty, albeit slurring her words. "Otherwise, we'd all fall down dead right now."

"Fine, _outside air_," he retorted.

"The park!" Angela squealed. "Hodgins, let's go to the park!"

"The first date park?" Bones asked.

Angela nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! It's at the end of the street. Please, please, please?"

Hodgins laughed. "C'mon then. The park it is!"

They stumbled out onto the front driveway, hovering as Hodgins made his way to the front of the inebriated pack. He held up his finger to imply silence, which only made Sweets laugh and tumble into the fence beside him.

"Waddle along behind us, Baby Duck!" Bones teased.

"I'm not a Baby Duck!"

Booth glanced back and saw that Sweets was grinning. He was obviously thrilled with the term of endearment, so he made no move to squelch her drunken goading.

They somehow managed to reach the sprawling playground and adjoining park with minimal noise, although the walk itself took several minutes longer than it should have. Even as the most sober member of their entourage, Booth found it difficult to maintain more than a meandering, wobbling pace. It didn't help that he had to steer Bones by her hips a few times, although he took the opportunities to subtly palm her ass quite happily.

"The park!" Hodgins announced. "Play and stuff!"

_Oh hell. That last beer did it_. Booth was officially the only remotely sober person left. He felt a pulling on his arm and glanced at Bones. Her face was so… happy. Free. His heart pounded as she pulled him in for an intense kiss.

"Let's go!" she demanded as she broke away.

"Go where?"

"Play!"

He followed her lead, chuckling as Angela and Hodgins fought over the fireman pole. Sweets was climbing up the slide, his feet sliding comically backwards every time he drew close to the top. _Overgrown kid_.

"You're doing it wrong!" Bones shouted.

"Shh!" Booth urged.

"He is! Watch."

Bewildered, he did watch – and saw his partner yank Sweets back down the slide by his belt loops, giggling as the kid hit the sand with a muttered curse. She promptly kicked off her shoes and stuck out her tongue.

"Bare feet are best for traction!" she admonished him as she easily scrambled to the top of the slide.

Angela giggled as she slid down the pole, her skirt fluttering up. "Owned by a girl, Sweets!"

Bones slid down the slide, a triumphant grin on her face. "I am a playground expert."

"Since when?" Booth asked.

"Russ and I used to spend hours at the park," she replied with a wistful smile. "We held races. I always got a head start climbing the slide."

Sweets had managed to yank his shoes and socks off and he pulled her into the sand. "Show off! My turn!"

"Oh, it's on!" Angela announced, chucking sand at his head while pulling her friend to her feet. "You gonna take that, Bren?"

"Not a chance in hell!"

Booth hopped onto the monkey bars, swinging absently as the usually serious anthropologist transformed into a scheming child, not hesitating to shove Sweets back down the slide as she clambered across a suspended bridge in her bare feet. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, glints of red highlighted by the moon.

"No fair!" Sweets protested.

"Sucker!"

Booth shook his head as Hodgins joined the fray, walking over Sweets and scrambling up the slide ahead of him, chasing down his colleague, who'd begun an earnest defense of a panel of spinning blocks with pictures of animals on them, as well as a rope ladder to the ground.

"Booth! Push me!"

He followed Angela's voice, laughing as she flailed her legs on the swing. "All of you are ridiculous!"

Nevertheless, he obliged her, grinning as Bones tackled Hodgins and drove him back towards the slide, promptly sending poor Sweets skidding back to the bottom. He growled and kicked the slide before climbing it anew, only to hit the ground as Bones slid down herself to escape Hodgins.

"I knew this was the perfect idea," Angela murmured.

"Apparently," Booth remarked. "I've never seen any of them like this."

"Grab the other swing," Angela ordered him. "Live a little, Studly!"

It was strange: the moment he began to swing, he felt lighter… There was something to the act of stretching out his legs, only to bend them back again, that was relaxing. Angela continued to climb higher, giggling as she caused the swing set to rock slightly.

"Don't kill us, Ange!"

She snickered. "Scared, Agent Booth?"

"Please!"

Over on the main playground, Hodgins was calling himself a pirate, and Sweets was ordering Bones to walk the invisible plank. Without hesitation, she slid halfway down the pole then lunged out and swung from the monkey bars.

"They needed to play," Angela said.

Booth glanced over, tilting his head. "You're not as drunk as you're acting, are you?"

She shook her head. "Please! Look at my dad. Alcohol tolerance is in my blood." Glancing at her husband swinging an invisible sword in menacing fashion at Sweets, she added, "None of them got to play as kids. Not entirely."

"Bones was just talking about Russ—"

"No, G-Man. She played, but… She didn't. Neither did you, for that matter." She stopped pumping her legs, bringing the swing to a slow sway. "I had a great childhood. Chaotic and wild, but great. I was a kid, all the way to my eighteenth birthday and beyond. Jack's family was filthy rich and consumed with appearances and things he didn't care about. They looked at him as an heir, not a child wanting to be heard. Why else would he bring me here on our first date?" She smiled and waved at him. "Booth, he wanted to be himself with me. It was an honour."

Booth nodded thoughtfully. "I was a kid."

"Your dad was a shithead, your grandfather was in turmoil and your brother struggled, too," Angela rebutted. "You had a childhood, but you also saw things no kid should see. Sweets is the same. He's also an orphan now. And Bren…"

"She was abandoned. Hurt in foster care," Booth concluded.

"I remember she told me once last year that she didn't know how to play with toys," Angela continued. "No one should grow up confused about how to play. That breaks my heart. All of you, to greater and lesser degrees, were youth without youth. You grew up way too fast and kinda lonely."

"So it's your mission to turn us all into overgrown children for our own good." Booth concluded.

"You got it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a husband to dethrone."

Glancing at Bones, he recognized her emotion now: it was the same look of glee that Parker had when he'd taken him to the park as a child. It was _youth_. Innocence. Her eyes met his and she hooked her knees over a bar, dangling upside down.

"Boooooooooth!" she wailed. "Come play!"

Abandoning his swing, he kicked off his shoes and jammed his socks inside. "You asked for it!"

With a quick sway, he hooked his own legs over a bar, his face inches from hers. She arched her body towards him, their lips meeting in a light kiss.

"You're beautiful," he said, reaching out to caress her cheek.

"You're my standard," she murmured.

"You always have to win, don't you?"

She winked. "Absolutely. Unless I choose to let you dominate."

"Damn it, Bones!" he muttered. "You can't say things like that when we have company."

"So let's go home."

Above them, a commotion drew their attention. Sweets was standing above them now, his arms outstretched.

"I'm king of the worrllllllllld!" he screamed.

"You're going to be the king of my foot being up your ass if you don't get down, Sweets!" Booth shouted back.

"_Near… far… wherever you are_!" Angela sang, striking herself in the chest.

"No, no, no!" Hodgins groaned. "No more Celine Dion!"

"Guys! Let's play Tag!" Sweets shouted happily. "Not it!"

A police siren interrupted the ensuing chorus of "Not it!" claims, the group scrambling to the ground and grabbing discarded shoes from the sand. Hodgins waved them towards the back of the park, muttering about a shortcut. Booth yanked Bones along with him, ignoring her protests of moving too quickly and a sick stomach as the crackle of radios became distant.

"My neighbours will hate me," Hodgins muttered.

"They already do. They're morons," Angela replied.

"I still wanna play Tag," Sweets grumbled.

They cut through a wooded patch and found themselves in the familiar territory of the Hodgins estate, all heaving a collective sigh of relief.

"Maybe midnight park runs are bad when drunk," Hodgins mused aloud.

"No way! That was awesome!" Sweets said. "Best night ever!"

"Who said it's over?" Angela interjected. "Mansion Hide and Seek?"

"Not it!" everyone shouted – except Booth, who rolled his eyes and cursed beneath his breath.

"Count to two hundred and come find us!" Hodgins announced before running off with Angela.

As Sweets scrambled to keep up with them, weaving side to side, Booth stared at Bones, who remained motionless. Curious, he edged forward, smiling.

"Aren't you going to hide?"

"I am. I just wanted to tell you something privately before I do."

"And what's that? I'm already up to thirty-five in my head."

She pressed up onto her tip-toes and whispered in his ear. "When you find me, I won't be wearing any clothing."

She ran off into the house, leaving him speechless and flabbergasted – and very determined to win at this game. He closed his eyes and continued to count, thinking of all the possible rooms where she might hide and what he was going to do with her when he caught her. The more he thought of the intimate possibilities, the more he began to appreciate Angela's philosophy on play. Maybe it was something they should indulge in more often; after all, it definitely brought out the best in Bones.

"One ninety-eight… one ninety-nine… two hundred," he finished at last. _Ready or not, here I come_…


	10. Lights Of Endangered Species

_**AN: I'm not a fan of songfics in general, but for some reason, I heard this song and the Muse had an idea. It branched out from the middle verses and grew into this. Let me know what you think. **_

_**I obviously don't own Bones, nor do I own the lyrics to "Lights Of Endangered Species" by Matthew Good.  
**_

**TITLE: Lights Of Endangered Species  
TAG TO: Post 7X13; Post 8X1 (reunion).  
PROMPT: Songfic; B&B and Hodgela pairings  
RATING: T  
**

* * *

"_Saw a magician cut you in half - so bloodless  
Daunted, I applauded  
Looking around at all them eyeless faces  
_Y_ou crept into me and stood alone  
Arms stretched out to nothing  
Like the memory of something gone wrong_..."  
*

He remembers the day she brought the video to work: how vibrant she looked in her white dress; her sheepish grin as she loaded the CD-R into the Angelatron; her baited breath as she hit play. He also remembers thinking of Roxie, of how carefree Angela's seemed to him since reigniting their old flame.

She is young in the video and Mysterio is blatantly into her and it infuriates him. And yet, he is impressed by the trick, because it is Angela smiling on screen, and everything she does impresses him.

He wasn't looking for love the day she walked into the lab, arm looped through Dr. Brennan's. He was a man filled with rage at the world, at his family. Zack was the only person in the world he bothered to call friend anymore, having cut off everyone in his life. To care meant risk, meant exposure to potential heartache and cruelty.

But she walked in and he fell, and he understood, for the first time in his privileged life, powerlessness. When they fell apart in the diner, he understood it all the more. He couldn't restrain her, so he'd sat quietly by, content to at least call her colleague, or perhaps a friend. In the end, she came back, although she was never really gone. He'd gone to sleep with her name on his lips each and every night in her absence.

He sometimes sits quietly with Michael, contemplating their time in Paris and wondering if coming back to Washington has been a mistake. He worries that he's caged a beautiful bird meant to soar, fears that their love will be a Phoenix and disintegrate into ashes yet again. And, if that's what comes to pass, he wonders if they will continue to part and reunite, a relationship forever in rebirth?

He loves her enough that he could live with such a life, but it terrifies him. He's in so deep, he cannot breathe at the thought of her walking away again.

Jack sighs and turns over in bed, willing sleep to come. She would tell him if she was miserable, wouldn't she? In slumber, she smiles, her face relaxed. She is as young as she was in that video, as beautiful and unfettered. He wonders if it's because she dreams of freedom and adventure. He hopes she takes him with her on those adventures.

Maybe he'll take her to Paris next weekend.

* * *

"_Slip the darkness down to the harbour  
Peel your star dress, burn in the water  
Forget your promise, turn out your light  
Lay down and sleep tonight  
Dream of your sons, dream of your daughters  
Come back to you_..."  
*

She remembers the night she understood her heart at last. She can feel it as if it's happening all over again: the sticky heat of the island; the light breeze making it bearable, but only just; the stars overhead dotting the sky.

It is the third night of the dig, and she misses him.

She tosses and turns in her tent, but it's hopeless: she's wide awake and weary from a long day of hiking to the excavation site, listening to Daisy prattle on about Sweets, the economy, her thesis and someone named Lady Gaga. It's a peculiar name for a noblewoman, but perhaps it's a shortened version of something more befitting an aristocrat.

She is burning up, and for a moment, she fears she's contracted a tropical illness (already!). Desperate for relief, she slips back into a wrap dress and makes her way carefully towards the beach.

The stars are stunning tonight, their light reflected in the crystalline water. She kicks off her sandals and wades in, immediately soothed by the coolness. This is the right idea: she'll cool off and return to her tent, where she'll find sleep. She's simply adjusting to the weather.

And then, she thinks of Booth. She's immediately taken on a mental journey through countless sleepless nights filled with alcohol and Thai food. She remembers the times he's shown up at the lab at one in the morning to pull her from Limbo and drag her home.

"You need to sleep, Bones," he always says, and she swears she sleeps plenty. But she doesn't sleep well; she hasn't since the night her parents left her. She fears sleep because it takes people from her. She never tells him this, nor does she tell him that she only sleeps when he takes her home and promises to pick her up for breakfast. Because she believes Booth. He is a man of his word, proven time and again.

She thinks of all of this, staring at the water, and the question hits her again: _Why don't I trust him about love, then_?

She looks to Angela and Hodgins in her mind, because she knows they love each other. She is certain of it. She thinks of the looks they exchange. She considers how Hodgins brings her coffee at lunch when Angela refuses to take a break from her computer, how he kisses her forehead and says nothing else. Nothing else needs to be said: his actions speak.

Booth's actions speak, too. She finally hears them.

"He's loved me for years. Just like Angela says."

She feels her legs wobble and sinks into the sand. Why is she realizing this now? Was distance all she really needed? Why did she _need_ distance?

It's a stupid question. She knows why. She doesn't trust herself in relationships. The evidence clearly demonstrates how hopeless she is at monogamous commitments. She didn't lie to Booth when she told him that she had to protect him from her, that she couldn't risk the partnership they had. But maybe, she realizes, she's wrong about not having his heart. Maybe she has one just as loving and big as his, only she's buried it beneath the wreckage of countless disappointments and cruel words.

Maybe it's always been his. Metaphorically, of course; if she actually gave him her heart, she would die.

She has evidence of his love for her, evidence of commitment. He's stayed by her side for five straight years. She's seen him protect her, shield her from harm. He doesn't inflict it. Why is she running from him?

She loves him, and she's allowing fear to destroy perhaps her only chance at true happiness.

In so many ways, she is uninhibited. She is fearless in field work, unafraid of the dangers of the world, with which she's come face to face on several occasions. She embraces her sexuality as a gift, pursuing her pleasure with gusto. But to allow someone to have her heart - to have the power to break it - seems impossible.

Every journey begins somewhere. Hers begins with a slow rise to her feet and the discarding of her dress in the sand as she wades into the water once more and plunges into its depths.

As she swims, she glances at the stars, wondering where he is and what he sees. Water and desert: they are opposites, perpetually. She wonders if distance will diminish his longing for her. She no longer wants him to move on, but she cannot ask him to wait until she's ready. What if she never is?

The dress clings to her skin as she makes her way back to the tent, where she strips down and curls into a ball. Beside her is a photo of the Jeffersonian team, Booth included, for he is an essential part of their team. She notices for the first time that his eyes aren't quite facing the camera, nor are hers. They're drawn to each other.

"Don't be a hero," she pleads with his smiling face. "Come back alive. Come back to me."

She remembers all of this now as she rolls over in their bed, studying his face. She's waiting for the nightmare to come, as it does each night. She's waiting to save him from it before she allows herself to rest.

She tries not to cry when thinking of the months she wasn't here to protect him.

* * *

"_Got my guns in a row  
I got my boys to the shore  
Not all, but we'll stay here all day long  
And get beat to shit for you  
Get beat to shit for you  
Spinning a right that was never far off of wrong  
So, in pieces your sons and in pieces your daughters  
Come back to you_..."  
*

He is back in Afghanistan.

The war zones in his dreams shift and change, but it's all hell to him. The sounds of explosions and gun shots; the bloody men and women brought back to base camp. The blood saturating his uniform as he carries Parker as far as he can and a few steps further, because the kid shouldn't be dead. He can't be dead.

No matter how old they are, they are always too young to die in his eyes.

This time, the nightmare takes him to his final week in Afghanistan, although he didn't know it at the time. To him, it's month seven of twelve and three more soliders are dead, people that he's been working with. He's supposed to be stopping this loss of life. He's assured that casualties are down, but it's not good enough. There shouldn't be any at all.

He wants to take a more active role, but he remembers the way _she_ looked at him and asked him not to be the hero and he holds back. He knows that Hannah, too, wishes he'd be more careful, but she's not one to talk after years of being a war correspondent. She's also not _her_.

He looks at the young man in front of him, and it's Parker all over again. Another dead kid, another form letter from the military to a family back home. More blood on his hands.

The next body is a young woman, a rarity here in this scorching hell. She was feisty and strong, gifted with a gun. She had sniper potential and now she's one more lost soul in a box.

He closes his eyes and crosses himself, praying for the latest losses. When he opens his eyes, he sees Bones on the table, lifeless. He begins to scream...

He is jarred awake by a strong push against his shoulder, his eyes flying open to find her safe and warm beside him. His Bones. His beautiful woman. His arms reach out, pulling her tight against his chest as his heart hammers within.

"I'm here," she says quietly. "I love you and I'm here."

"Afghanistan," he manages to tell her, burying his face in her hair.

Her fingers drag lightly along his side, her lips pressing to his heart. She's here. Nights were so much longer during her absence. He knows she feels guilt for not being here to wake him, no matter how often he tells her that he can cope with his own nightmares. She tells him that coping together is the point of partnership, and he can't disagree with that logic. It's his own guilt that objects, that tells him he is undeserving.

"Close your eyes," she tells him. He obeys, knowing that he'll sleep dreamlessly now.

She has her own nightmares: infrequent, yet violent, thrashing affairs. It takes a lot to shake her free from their grip, but he always does. He always protects her.

He'll never _not _be the hero when it comes to her.

"I love you," he tells her.

The words are insufficient for the depth of emotion he feels, but they'll have to do.

* * *

"_Good morning, beautiful  
I've waited all my life  
To watch you breathe in  
Stand up and decide  
To set something, anything, on fire_..."  
*

She's awake before him for a change, and as she stretches her arms overhead, she chooses to remain in bed. Why rush into the day? It's Sunday morning and there's no active case on the go. _Yet_, she quickly adds. Murder doesn't take a day off and attend church.

She twists her long hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck and studies her husband's face. She can tell that he isn't sleeping well: his forehead is scrunched in deep concentration and his hands are fisted in the sheets. He doesn't seem to ever sleep well anymore, and she knows the reason why.

He's afraid she's going to leave him.

It's a recurring silent discussion between them, a heated exchange between their eyes. She catches him with a look of worry, of inadequacy, and she looks to him as the man she knows him to be and waits for him to exhale the breath he never notices he's holding.

It's a matter of passion, in her eyes: he believes he is lacking it, and she knows better. He's the most passionate man she's known - and she's definitely been drawn throughout her life to people of passion. Such is the life of an artist that truly surrenders to her heart. She knows his passion when he kisses her, feels it when their bodies are joined. She's witnessed it in Paris as he roamed the streets with her, no longer a scientist, no longer a wealthy heir, but simply _Jack_. She saw it in his eyes in that hell-hole jail cell and immediately knew what a mistake they'd made in parting. It was why she'd married him right there and then.

He sighs in his sleep and her fingers extend to toy with his curls. She cannot deny that the travel bug is biting her in the ass and demanding she rush off to sights unseen, but what he doesn't understand is that she will not go without him. She's waiting for her son to get just a little older before leaving him in the hands of trusted family or friends.

She wants him to trust in his ability to ignite.

She recalls hearing him talk in his sleep about cages and birds, shaking her head. She's not shackled to him. He isn't her prison. In fact, she's not the one in the cage at all. He is. He's caged by a life of expectations and fear, one he retreats inside whenever life overwhelms. She's picked the damn lock, but he continues to fly back inside. _Better the devil you know_, as the saying goes.

She wants to set him free, once and for all. He needs to be free.

* * *

"_It's spilling over on your shoulders  
The dawn_..."  
*

She watches him stir, leans in for a kiss before his eyes open. His lips are soft and warm, just like his heart. He is her home.

"Hey handsome," Angela whispers.

"_It's spilling over on your shoulders  
The dawn_..."  
*

"Hey yourself, beautiful," Jack replies.

She is stunning in the morning, captured in the gleam of sunlight peeking between the blinds. He pulls her closer, kisses her harder and she moans in that way that gives him chills.

"I was thinking last night," he begins.

"Dangerous activity," she teases.

"I know." He reaches for her face, cupping her cheek. "I have a proposal for you."

"Oh? What sort of proposal?"

With a grin, he replies, "Call your Dad and ask him to spend a weekend here."

She frowns. "Why? Are you _looking_ for another tattoo?"

"Please, no! He'll be here. We _won't_ be."

Her eyes light up. "Where will we be?"

"Paris."

He assumes from the frantic kissing that ensues as she straddles his hips that she approves of his plans.

* * *

"_It's spilling over on your shoulders  
The dawn_..."  
*

She's still asleep when his eyes open, her deep auburn locks cascading over her shoulder. Booth rolls his neck slowly, stretching out the tension within. He loves watching her sleep. It's a rarity, given her radar for Christine's cries, but mercifully, their daughter has chosen to sleep in.

He can't say there hasn't been pain along the way, but he knows it was all worth it every time he wakes up beside her. There's a peacefulness to the morning now, one he's never known - not with Rebecca, Cam, Hannah, Tessa... No one. She's the one person who can both drive him up a wall and ground him.

She stirs and he slides closer, wrapping an arm around her waist. She hums to herself, some unfamiliar tune as she nestles against him.

"Do you..." He pauses to kiss her cheek. "... know how beautiful you are?"

"I do," she teases, "Although I suspect that was rhetorical." She turns her head to him, seeking another kiss. "You're rather handsome. Perfectly so."

Their lips meet once more and he briefly longs to propose. Right now. Right here, where the world is safely outside their door and it is just them. He's learned his lesson, though, and besides, he finds the thought of her proposing to him exciting.

"_It's spilling over on your shoulders  
The dawn_."  
*

"What's that grin for?" she asks him.

"What grin?" he replies coyly.

She shakes her head, knowing that he'll never tell her where his mind drifted off to just now. She has her suspicions, and she'll keep them to herself. Instead, she admires the sunlight trickling in between the curtains, highlighting his sturdy chest and arms. She'll never tire of this, she realizes. She's glad she finally took a risk and entrusted her heart to Booth.

Who else could protect it so well?

There's one more risk - a gamble, perhaps, as Sweets would say. She's working her way up to it, one draft at a time. She's certain the custodians at the Jeffersonian are baffled by the plethora of pages awaiting recycling these days, but she's a perfectionist when it comes to her words.

He deserves a perfect proposal, and she's going to give it to him. Soon. The ring's already waiting, safely hidden with Angela.

"You have church soon," she reminds him.

He glances at the clock beside him. "I have some time."

One kiss turns to five turns to tangled limbs and clothing discarded on the floor, and Brennan knows this is what people mean when they speak of "heaven on earth". She doesn't believe in heaven, but she believes in Booth and he believes, and that's enough for her.

"I love you," they whisper simultaneously and burst into laughter at their synchronicity.

It's become a frequent occurrence. He calls it fate; she calls it love. They're both right.


	11. Tomorrow

**TITLE: Tomorrow**  
**TAG TO: The Hole In The Heart**  
**PROMPT: "What if the night after Vincent was killed B&B only slept together, but didn't have sex?"**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

"Can I just…?"

Her voice trailed away as her body shifted closer, but he didn't need her words. He understood what she needed. He always understood. He opened his arms and she fell against his chest.

"Yeah, that's why I'm here." He gently pulled them backwards, sprawling sideways along the bed as he held her. "I'm right here."

She wept into his shirt and with every single tear that seeped into the cotton, his heart broke a little more. She'd lost so much – too much for one person – and this time, it was his fault. He'd failed her by failing Vincent. Her fist clutched his shirt as a violent sob wracked her body. A dam had collapsed within her and there was no end, it seemed, to the tears she could shed.

His hand ran lightly over her hair as he held her, knowing that there were no words to console her. She was devastated enough to even consider the possibility of God and that fact alone was more salt in the wound. His failure had broken her.

"Shh… I've got you, Bones. I'm here. I—" He choked back the words. Now wasn't the time to say it.

"You what?" she mumbled.

_Damn it_. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, buying himself scant moments to think of something to say, anything _but_ how he felt. What came out was not much better.

"I want you to stay here tonight," he blurted out.

"I already agreed to stay at your apartment," she said quietly.

He was screwed. He'd have to roll with his idiotic substitute, which sounded worse.

"I meant _here_," he said, wincing in anticipation. "Share the bed."

Her silence was deafening.

"The couch isn't comfortable." He was rambling. He knew he was rambling, but he couldn't shut up. "And there's less windows in here. I know it's not exactly—"

"Okay."

Now he was the silent one, that single word seeming to echo in his head. Her head lifted just enough to turn and meet his bewildered stare. She didn't seem angry, but he knew she was damn good at hiding it when she chose to.

"Just to sleep," she clarified. "I don't want to be alone."

"Just to sleep," he repeated.

She slid her legs onto the bed, her body pulling from his grasp. The absence of her warmth against him was painful, but he respected it. They would sleep. Just sleep. He swung his own body back onto the bed, pulling and tugging at the covers until they were both beneath them.

It was too hot, but the thermostat had nothing to do with it. Before Broadsky had resurfaced, he'd been planning how to broach the subject of a relationship with Bones. He'd come to understand that his love for her had never stopped; he'd simply denied it, buried it beneath the wreckage of his failed relationships. But now wasn't the time, even if the soldier in him feared this night might be his last.

When her hand snaked over his chest and her body nestled against him once more, he drew a sharp breath and fought for control. Instinctively, his arm had wrapped around her without his permission, and for a moment, he was mesmerized by the perfection of it, of _them_. _Such a perfect fit_.

"Booth?"

"Yeah, Bones?" His voice was hoarse and he swallowed hard, hoping she wouldn't notice.

"Your heart's beating at a very accelerated rate. Are you okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

She looked up at him, frowning. "You're not fine."

Why was he lying to her? Why was he hiding from her? _She knows_. She knew him, perhaps better than he'd ever known himself.

"You're right. I'm not fine," he admitted. "I'm upset about Vincent, angry at myself for him. It should have been me on the phone—"

"Booth, no!"

"Bones, please, just… I'm terrified of what Broadsky will do next, terrified I'll fail. Terrified I won't be able to protect you. Or I'll lose this _game_ he's playing." He stared at the ceiling, struggling not to cry in front of her. "I don't want this to be our last night."

His eyes closed, he felt her hand against his cheek: soft, warm and gentle. He heard her sigh as she traced along his jaw bone.

"I can't be with you and lose you hours later," she whispered.

That got his attention. Because it wasn't a never, or even a "much later". It was "not tonight". His hand covered hers, holding it against his face.

"It'll break me," she confessed. "Because there won't be any compartmentalizing after that wall comes down. I honestly don't know if I'd be able to if you… if…"

_If you die_, he completed in his head. He nodded as he brushed aside fresh tears tumbling down her cheek.

"It ends tomorrow," he said firmly. "Broadsky… we finish it tomorrow."

He didn't know how, or where, but he would find the man. And when he did, he prayed he walked away from that confrontation. Walked straight to her.

"I'll be here waiting for you afterwards," she replied softly.

"I don't know how this will play out –"

"I do," she insisted. "If you promise me, you'll come home tomorrow night. You're a man of your word, a man of honour." She smiled wanly. "Hodgins once told me I had great faith in you. I argued that I had evidence. Whatever it's called, I believe you. I always believe you."

"Bones…"

"Promise me, Booth," she begged. "Promise to come home safe."

He suddenly recalled his re-certification exam and Gordon Gordon's advice. _I won't fail her. I can't_. She was so vulnerable here in his arms and he couldn't deny her anything.

"I promise."

She stretched herself up, her lips meeting his in the lightest of kisses, and he knew. He knew he would find a way back to her – to a future that was now only hours away.

"You need sleep," she murmured.

"You, too."

Her leg hooked over his as she came to rest once more against his chest. He counted her breaths as he clung to her, mulling her words. _She believes in me. In us._ He smiled as he recalled how she called his apartment _home_. Anywhere she was, that was home for him.

He couldn't remember falling asleep, but his alarm made damn sure he knew when seven had arrived. He groaned and flung a hand out to hit snooze, startling as he realized the bed was empty beside him. He shot up in bed, his hand instinctively closing around his gun.

"Bones!"

He heard it then: the shower. Feeling foolish, he sat the gun down, although he knocked on the bathroom door to confirm she was alright. Her indignant reply made him chuckle and he retreated to the kitchen in search of something edible. His hand froze on the fridge door as he caught sight of the calendar on the wall. Today's date was circled in red.

_The wish_. The whole reason he'd been gearing up to talk to her about giving things a chance.

A door opened around the corner and feet padded down the hall towards him. Her hair was damp and wavy, her body clad only in a large blue towel. Booth swallowed hard but found himself unable to look away.

"I left my clothes out here," she said, rather casually as she reached for a neatly folded pile.

"Oh! Okay." _Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name_…

"Is something wrong?"

"Of course not!" he scoffed. "I'm just looking for breakfast."

She smiled, shaking her head. "You'll have to get over that modesty, Booth. I only bothered with a towel today out of respect for you."

The implication for tomorrow morning was crystal clear.

His jaw dropped open as she calmly pivoted and headed for his bedroom, leaving him alone with a goofy calendar of puppy pictures and a large red circle promising that fate existed and they would have another chance. Tonight, when he came home to her.

After all, a promise was a promise.


	12. Fade To Red

**_AN: You naughty, naughty reviewers! One shots are one shots for a reason. Always wanting me to write follow-ups... They're not entirely out of the question. A proposal fic will likely happen, spinning off Lights Of Endangered Species. However, today I feel angsty, so here's a "what happened next?" prompt from NCISVILLE._  
**

**_Thanks to FaithinBones, who pointed out my spastic 3am vowel fail.  
_**

**TITLE: Fade To Red**  
**TAG TO: The Wannabe in the Weeds**  
**PROMPT: Brennan POV - learning Booth is dead at the hospital**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

"We did our best, but there was too much blood loss."

At this point, she tunes out. She stops listening because obviously, this man in surgical scrubs is an imbecile unworthy of the medical profession. He's blatantly mistaken. Booth isn't dead. She would _know_. She rises to her feet and pushes past him, eyes darting around in search of someone competent.

"Dr. Brennan, maybe you should have a seat," the imbecile says, stepping in front of her.

"Maybe you should find me someone knowledgeable to speak with," she counters. "Booth is fine. He was given appropriate care until paramedics responded and was brought here expediently. He's fine."

She would _know_. As unscientific and ridiculous as it sounds, she tells herself that she would _feel it_ if he were no longer alive.

"Sweetie, come here," Angela whispers, sniffling. She's so upset. Why does she believe this lie?

"I'm so sorry for your loss," the doctor says.

Brennan fights the urge to strike him. Instead, she seeks to put an end to this nonsense.

"I want to see Booth."

"I'm afraid that isn't possible," the doctor says. "There are rules about these things. Family only."

He winces, fearing her reaction. He should fear it. She feels her fists beginning to curl at her sides as she stares him down in disbelief.

"But I'm on his forms. We're on each other's forms," Brennan says. "We're partners."

"When a patient… Those forms don't apply. I'm told that the Bureau is taking charge of him now due to the circumstances of his death, regardless."

He shakes his head sadly and walks away, leaving Brennan standing beside Angela. Angela is openly weeping now and her hand reaches out for Brennan's, gripping it tightly. She watches the doctor retreat, her stomach beginning to turn. _I would know. I would know! _

"I want to see him, Ange."

"I know, sweetie, but the rules—"

"He's not dead. He's not."

Angela moves in front of her, swiping at her own tears. "I'm sure they tried very hard to save him."

"No, Ange. I would know, wouldn't I? I would feel it. Like…" She shakes her head as if to dismiss the painful memories welling to the surface. "I would know. He's fine."

"Bren—"

"They've got the wrong patient!" she screams, clamping her hand over her mouth in surprise. "They need to prove it. They need to let me see him."

Angela embraces her tightly and suddenly, she cannot breathe without a searing pain in her chest. _I would know. I would feel it_. Rational, irrational, she doesn't care. Somehow, she knows it's true.

"He's gone, sweetie. God, I can't believe this… It was so fast."

She shakes her head, pulling away from Angela. "I need to see him. They need to let me."

"I wish they'd let you," Angela says. "Maybe Hodgins can yell at them for you?"

Brennan isn't listening anymore, because all she can hear is a gunshot, and all she sees is blood seeping between her fingers as she presses down on a wound and watches Booth slip into unconsciousness.

"I'm his partner," she says, her voice high-pitched and cracking as the tears begin to fall. "I'm his _partner_."

"Yes, you are," Angela echoes.

"What the hell was he thinking?" she yells suddenly, startling a nearby nurse. "That bullet was meant for _me_. It was for _me_. Why the hell did he step in the way? Why?"

Angela sighs. "You know why. I've told you before—"

"Don't," she snaps. "Please…"

She can't hear that now. Not when she's starting to wonder if Angela might be right about these feelings she insists Booth has. Had? Has? Suddenly, intelligence is her enemy, grammar the knife twisting in her metaphorical heart.

"Okay. Okay." Angela's hands grip her shoulders and she is suddenly aware that her body is swaying, debating which side to fall to. "Come sit with me."

"I would have taken the bullet," she insists. "It wasn't for him to take."

Angela nudges her to a chair and she buckles as the back of her knees connects with the seat. She buries her head in her hands and closes her eyes, but he is there. Smiling at her. Teasing her about not knowing what movie some quote is from. Holding her as she cries. Her partner. Booth is there. And then, he is getting shot and falling down and everything is red. She sees red as she snatches up his gun and fires, watches it blossom at Pam Nunan's throat with sick satisfaction, watches it soak through everything she presses to Booth's wound to staunch the flow. She feels his pulse grow weaker and everything is red, red, red…. Red lights on the police car. Red letters indicating the Emergency Entrance. Red water as she scrubs her hands under scalding water, red flesh made clean.

Her hands are wet and she drops them to look, and for a moment, they are red. A blink and she recognizes that she's crying.

"Do you want me to stay with you tonight?" Angela asks.

"No, that's not necessary," she replies, wiping her hands on her pants.

"Sweetie, I was only asking to be polite. I'm staying with you tonight. You need me, even if you don't think you do."

Angela hands her a tissue and she waves it away. Angela's still crying. She needs a tissue herself. She rises, drawing a deep breath to steady herself as they turn the corner and come face to face with the rest of their colleagues. Someone has told them, Brennan surmises from Cam's devastation, Zack's pacing and Hodgins' immediate rush to Angela's side.

"I can't believe this," he says. "This doesn't seem real."

"It's not real," Brennan replies. "They won't let me see him. I'm his partner and they won't let me see him."

"Seriously? What the hell is their problem?"

Hodgins is angry and this comforts Brennan. Shared outrage means she has the right to feel betrayed by the doctors. It means that she can feel lonely and hurt without anyone questioning it.

"I'm going to get her home," Angela announces.

"Yeah, we were heading out in a few." Hodgins sighs deeply as he looks to Brennan. "I'm so sorry, Dr. B. Booth… well, you know."

She nods, unable to speak without potentially bursting into tears. She must contain this. She must hold it together. She allows Angela to lead her to her car and hands her the keys. She's not in the mood to drive tonight. Instead, she watches the cars pass, counting the number of each colour to keep her emotions in check. The red cars test her resolve. There are five of them.

She's scarcely aware of the walk between the car and her front door, realizing halfway into the kitchen that she is home. With a furrowed brow, she looks to Angela for guidance. It's two in the morning.

"I should sleep," she says.

"Of course. I'll crash on your couch," Angela says.

Brennan frowns. "Don't be ridiculous. You take the bed. You're the guest."

"Sweetie—"

"Either you take the bed or I give you money for a cab home. Besides, I like my couch," she insists.

Angela relents, borrowing a pair of sweatpants to sleep in. She pulls Brennan close, stifling a sob in her shoulder as she hugs tightly.

"If you need me, come wake me," Angela whispers.

"I will." She's lying. She won't.

"I love you, Bren. You're my best friend."

She smiles briefly at this. "I love you, Ange. I'll see you in the morning."

Angela closes the door and she is alone at last, clutching her pajamas. She enters the bathroom to wash up and change and is startled when the water seems to turn red. She shakes it off, blames exhaustion and neurological reactions to grief. She remains in control until she lays down on the couch and closes her eyes.

She can smell him on this couch and the fact that he is so near yet forever gone breaks her resolve. Silently, she cries into the pillow he often leans on, willing the music in her head to die.

"_Hey, I've got the music, the frivolity. What else do you need?"_

"Shut up," she whispers. "Stop it."

_He's smiling and waving a lighter. She's vaguely aware of this as a ritual at music performances. She feels… normal. Like she belongs_.

"No…"

She opens her eyes and rolls over to stare at the ceiling. He is gone. She accepts this rationally. But she doesn't _feel_ his absence and that bothers her deeply. Is she too cold, too aloof to feel grief like her friends?

She is his partner. _Was. Is_. Definitely is. She will never have another partner.

She recognizes the irony in needing comfort that only Booth has ever provided and him being the one person she cannot seek out. She buries her face in the pillow, clutches it tightly and for a moment, she can pretend he is with her. For a moment, she is home.

And then everything fades to red, and she sobs until the sun rises on the first day without Booth.


	13. The Perfection In The Partnership

**_AN: Several of you asked for it and I shall deliver. This very long one-shot is loosely connected to chapter 9 (Youth Without Youth) and chapter 10 (Lights Of Endangered Species), although it stands alone perfectly well. Hopefully, I did the prompt justice. If I didn't, razztastic has her own wonderful version, which left me scrambling to do something very different yet very Brennan._  
**

**TITLE: The Perfection In The Partnership**  
**TAG TO: Post 7X13; Post 8X1**  
**PROMPT: Brennan has finally decided to propose to Booth, but it has to be perfect. Will she find the language of love?**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

Draft thirty-eight hit the recycling bin, fluttering to rest on top of an outdated and no longer useful journal article regarding the accurate assessment of congenital defects in prepubescent remains. Brennan kicked the underside of her desk in frustration, wincing as the impact vibrated through her foot. This was hopeless. Disastrous.

At this rate, she'd figure out the appropriate proposal a good year after Booth finally relented and asked her himself.

It was infuriating. She was a bestselling author, a frequently published researcher, and intellectually gifted. Words were hers to wield. And yet, nothing she'd composed seemed adequate. Nothing sufficed.

The first four drafts were discarded due to potentially offensive comments about the institution of marriage. Angela had advised against them, acknowledging that while it might be her opinion, it was not romantic, nor would Booth appreciate it. The next seven drafts devolved into pros and cons lists and somehow, she sensed Angela would also file these under "not romantic". Five more drafts felt too much like business contracts in tone. Another six, derived from watching "chick flicks" with Angela, felt disingenuous. The following eight were discarded for wading deeply into anthropology and seeming to be more of a thesis defense than a proposal. These last eight… Well, they simply didn't sound right. In striving for a balance between the positives of the preceding approaches and their negatives, she'd ended up with garbled nonsense or simplistic statements that didn't seem to capture what the man meant to her.

"I can't do this!" she grumbled, laying her head on the desk.

She'd come in early to work on the proposal before Booth potentially swung by and stumbled onto the project, but it was futile. Perhaps finding a poem was the right approach, as Angela had suggested after draft twenty-seven was crumpled and thrown across her office. Why did he have to challenge her this way? Why had he made that damn comment about her proposing to him? Had he said nothing, she would feel no obligation. She would wait for him to propose, and she would accept, regardless of her misgivings on marriage as a social construct. She would do anything for him.

Besides, a secret part of her felt tremendously insecure when he'd told her he wouldn't ask her. He'd asked Hannah and Rebecca, after all. She knew marriage was important to him, that he wanted it to happen at some point – or did he? She bit her lip, suddenly concerned that perhaps her past rejection and her decision to run from Pelant had ruined things. Maybe he couldn't commit to her. Maybe Christine was what kept him with her.

_No. I'm being irrational. The evidence tells me that Booth loves me independently of our progeny_.

"Dr. Brennan! A sight for sore eyes."

She glanced up and immediately smiled. "Micah! How have you been?"

"Oh, same old life. Work all night, sleep half the day, slip into lectures when I can. Visit the kids. How have you been?"

"Good," she replied, leaning back in her chair. "I finally feel settled back into a routine after my absence."

Micah nodded, his expression solemn. "I can't believe they ever thought you were capable of that murder. You were missed around here. I got to know your colleagues very well during that time."

"They stayed that late?" Brennan frowned. "No one mentioned that to me."

"Probably didn't want you to feel bad. I shouldn't have said anything. You look frustrated," he added, changing the subject.

"I am very frustrated," she admitted. "The universe isn't sending me any signals this time, Micah."

"Maybe I can help?" he offered, stepping into her office.

She smiled, shaking her head. "Oh, I'm sure you're tired after working all night."

Micah shrugged. "I drank a lot of coffee last night. The Natural Gardens department restocked the good stuff and told me to help myself. Couldn't refuse." He grinned as he leaned against her couch. "What's up?"

Glancing around to ensure privacy, she answered. "I want to propose to Booth. He made a comment some time ago about me proposing to him, and while I know he was being a little facetious, he was also sincere, if that makes sense."

Micah nodded. "So propose."

"I can't make the words sound right," she continued. "It has to be right, Micah. It has to be perfect. He deserves a perfect proposal. He's given me so much, stood by me through some of the most difficult times of my life, tolerated my rejection of him, forgiven my absence this summer… It's not enough to simply ask. Love – the language of it – has always been his domain. I'm at a loss."

Glancing at her recycling bin, Micah replied, "I was wondering why the custodians were gossiping about how much paper you're using these days. You're trying to write a script."

"I suppose I am," Brennan replied. "Micah, I know if I simply walk into it and just start talking, I'm apt to offend or hurt him unintentionally. I don't want to do that."

"Marriage hasn't been on your radar," Micah mused. "Lemme guess: you're at war with your anthropologist side, trying to balance the head and heart."

She nodded. "Exactly. But my heart side – the metaphorical one, of course – doesn't have the language. Angela's always helped with the love scenes in my novels, but that isn't appropriate for something this personal."

"Maybe it's not appropriate to let her edit your proposal script, or whatever you'd like to call it, but that doesn't mean you can't look for inspiration," Micah suggested.

"I tried that. I watched movies with Angela."

Micah groaned. "No, movies are terrible. They sell overdramatic, sugary romance. That's not you, Dr. Brennan. That's not Agent Booth either, from what I've seen. Want my advice?"

"I'm desperate for advice, and given that you've never steered me wrong with Booth before, I'd appreciate your input."

It was the truth: although she'd been rejected that night, her confession and subsequent opening of her heart had eventually brought them together. Micah had given her that final push towards allowing love into her life.

"Look, I'm a divorced man, but I do have twenty years of marriage under my belt, and most of them were pretty happy. The big things that matter are sincerity and love. That's all you need. You love Agent Booth. I can tell just talking to you. You just need the language. Try this: go to everyone you trust to know what love is, and ask them to define love and marriage for you. Along the way, you'll find things that ring true for you. Write 'em down. Use them."

"That could work," Brennan replied.

"Also: be yourself, Dr. Brennan. He loves you. He probably expects the science talk. So throw a little in, but keep it positive. Are there any cultures with unique marriage practices you admire?"

She thought for a moment then smiled. "There are a few practices that I do find admirable or pleasant."

"There you go! Stop overthinking it. You're killing a forest," Micah teased.

She laughed at this, grinning. "It's true. I ought to donate to a charity as penance."

"Might be a good idea. I'm going to get out of here, but I'll see you around."

Micah rose and headed for the door, just crossing the threshold as she called out to him. "Micah, wait!"

He turned. "Yes?"

"Define love and marriage for me?"

He chuckled. "Took you long enough to ask." He thought for a moment and replied, "The best way I can think of love is a constellation."

"Stars?"

"Think about it: stars move, but how long have we recognized the constellations they're always lecturing about? How long has The Big Dipper existed, for example? Love is something constant. No matter what happens around you, no matter how fiery things can be, it holds its general shape. It adapts or may change superficially, but The Big Dipper is, all in all, still The Big Dipper. Good couples know how to do that. Marriage is simply a promise to keep burning together, to move together."

Brennan smiled as she considered this. "Like evolution. Couples evolve, don't they?"

"Yes, they do. See? Science and romance, Dr. Brennan. They can go hand in hand." Micah winked. "See you soon."

"Goodnight, Micah."

Turning back to her computer, she found the words flowing freely. She was a scientist. What did scientists do? They gathered evidence. They studied behavior and recorded their observations. They recorded the narratives of others, preserving them. The answer had been there all along: she would gather her data and compile it.

* * *

"Ange?"

Her friend glanced up from her monitor, smiling. "What's up, sweetie?"

"I need your help."

"Are you still agonizing over the proposal?" Angela pushed back from her desk, spinning in the chair. "What draft are you on now, thirty?"

"Thirty-nine and I want it to be the last one. I've decided I've approached this all wrong. In trying to be like Booth, I've been frustrated. It's time I be myself."

Angela tilted her head askance. "You're not going to lecture him about marriage, are you?"

"No, that's obviously inappropriate. I wanted to ask you a question."

"Shoot."

Brennan frowned. "Why would I shoot you? And with what?"

Angela giggled. "Ask your question."

"How would you define love and marriage?"

"Wow! Um… That's so difficult," Angela replied.

"It is!" Brennan echoed. "That's why I'm coming to the people I know who understand love best."

"Alright, let me think for a minute." Angela's brow furrowed as she mulled the question over. "I'm a visual person, Bren. Abstract concepts – those are visuals for me."

"Well, describe a visual then. Or show me."

"I can do Show and Tell!" Angela exclaimed, turning back to her computer. "I've scanned all of my art into the Angelatron… Just give me a moment to find it…" She clicked around for a few minutes, mumbling under her breath until she smiled and gestured to the projection screen. "There. Love."

Brennan studied the panting carefully, admiring the swirls of colour and the vague shapes. Angela was primarily known for drawing portraits and concrete images, but every once in a while, she ventured into the abstract. This was one such instance. The effect of the layers of colour was prismatic, the image seeming to emerge from the canvas and breathe. It was alive.

"I see what you mean," she said at last. "This is amazing, Ange."

"It was the first painting I did after I came home from the hospital with Michael. Originally I'd meant to do a portrait of him, but instead I just… let the paint take me on the journey. I embraced the colours and went with it." Angela smiled wistfully. "I was so scared of being a lousy mom, of doing things wrong, but I thought of Hodgins and Michael and I felt… safe, I guess. I wasn't alone."

_Safe_. Booth always made her feel safe. It was definitely something for the proposal. She also had her epiphany about the painting to add.

"Thanks. I've gotta go. Booth will be coming by with breakfast soon and I have to hide the draft."

Angela grinned. "Good luck!"

* * *

She found Hodgins after lunch, amusing himself with some rare insect he'd ordered in to study. Booth was at a meeting of some kind – he'd simply called it "boring" – and she had limited time to work with. Abandoning her final report on the previous week's case, she'd rushed downstairs to corner him.

"Hodgins?"

"Dr. B.! What's new? Do we have a case?"

She shook her head. "Personal matter, one that you must keep from Booth. Promise?"

Hodgins grinned. "You know Angela tells me everything, right?"

"I am well aware of that, and given that three weeks have elapsed without Booth being aware of my intentions, I know I can trust you with this." She sat down on a nearby chair, angling it to preserve a clear view of anyone approaching. "I need a favour."

"Proposal-related?"

"Yes. I wanted to ask you how you would define love and marriage. As a fellow scientist, I value your input on the matter."

Hodgins seemed amused by her request. "Really?"

She sighed. "Yes, really. Booth will be out of his meeting in approximately forty minutes. I don't have much time."

"Okay, okay. Um… Truth be told, I've used a lot of poetry when in need of romantic words. Why try to improve on the masters? Easier to quote them," he began. "But love… I think the most important thing that comes to mind is being yourself. Love gives you permission to do that. Marriage celebrates it."

"Being yourself… How?" Brennan asked. "I fear that if I am myself when making this proposal, I'll make Booth angry by insulting marriage or tradition. But if I leave that out, I'm not myself."

"Well, why do you want to marry him then?" Hodgins asked.

Brennan frowned. "Well, it's important to him, for starters. I also cannot deny the legal implications of marriage and the benefits for our relationship and our daughter."

"Don't marry him just because he wants it. He chose you. He knows how you feel about marriage, so he's probably not expecting it," Hodgins replied. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes!" She hesitated, then added, "I won't deny that it terrifies me, that I still have qualms about the construction of marriage and its importance in our society. But I love Booth, very much. We christened our daughter, and even though I don't believe in God, I was happy to be a part of that ritual, because I was sharing in something that makes Booth who he is."

"That last bit? Important." Hodgins smiled. "The moment I stopped trying to be a traditional romantic and was just myself, that's when Angela wanted to marry me the first time. However you do it, be Dr. Brennan about it. That's who Booth loves."

She smiled, thinking of all of the times he'd told her he loved her as she was, that she didn't need to be anyone else for him. She, in turn, never wanted him to be anyone but Booth.

"Thanks, Hodgins."

He grinned at her. "Anytime. Just hurry up and ask already. Angela's driving me nuts with her, 'I wanna know what he says!' rambling at night."

"I'll do my best," she quipped, heading out the door, her head just a little higher.

* * *

It had taken a lie about her father needing accompaniment to a medical exam to leave work early the following day, but Brennan had managed it. While she did consider Cam a friend, she was Booth's friend (and ex-girlfriend, although she chose to ignore that fact as much as possible) for far longer. She didn't trust her to remain silent for long, and while she'd made progress with her proposal, she was still nowhere near done.

Seated on a bench with her father at the park near the 'Mighty Hut', she sipped her coffee and prepared for what she imagined would be a difficult conversation.

"Tempe, you've been awfully quiet," Max said.

"I'm sorry. I'm just figuring out how I want to say this."

"Did Booth hurt you?"

Her eyes widened as she turned to face him. "What? No!"

"Because if he did, I'll make him pay. I'll make Billy Gibbons look like a newborn kitten when I'm done," Max continued angrily.

"Dad, stop! Booth has been wonderful to me. He's always good to me."

His voice softened. "Then what's wrong? You look worried."

With one last sip of coffee to counteract her dry mouth, she began, "I'm afraid of marriage, I think."

"Wait, did he ask you?"

"No, Dad. He swore I would ask him, and I want to, but I can't find the right words." She shook her head sadly, staring at the ground. "I want it to be perfect. And while I've detested marriage for years and can criticize it as a meaningless institution, I'm also starting to wonder if part of my anger is fear."

"And you think it's because of your mom and I abandoning you," Max stated.

"Maybe? I'm not sure. I just… Things seemed good between you and mom. Were they good? Or was that an act, like Max and Christine Brennan?"

She forced herself to look at her father, needing to see him speak. She needed to know if he was sincere.

"I loved your mother so very much," he began. "I still love her, Tempe. A man finds companionship, but no matter what happens, I will always love her." A tear slid down his cheek and Brennan found herself stunned. "I'm not proud of many things in my life. I always told her she could do better than me. But your mother had a pure heart. She just… _loved_. She didn't care that I was flawed. She didn't blame me for the criminal life we fell into. Even when we ran, she didn't blame me for putting us in the situation, for that terrible choice we made. I'm not proud of all of that, but I am proud that I learned to accept her love and married her. I'm proud of you and Russ. I got a lot of things wrong, but my family? I got that right."

She glanced down at her dolphin ring, her own emotions threatening to spill from her eyes. "I've never understood what Booth saw in me that first day. What he sees now. I've done so many things wrong, but he loves me."

"Why do you think I told you I wanted him for you, Tempe?" Max smiled. "He's so much like your mother."

_He is_, she realized. _He makes me feel safe, strong and beautiful. Just like Mom._

"Sweetheart, proposals shouldn't be complicated. They should simply be a declaration of the love we feel and what we're grateful for in that person, and a wish to stay in love," Max told her.

"I can do that."

"You can do anything. I've seen it."

They sat silently on the bench, both struggling to rein in their respective emotions. Brennan found herself staring at a dog across the park, roaming and barking as its owner threw a stick for it. It reminded her of Ripley, of how kind Booth had been to her when he'd been put down. So many gestures over the years – she couldn't possibly begin to list them all, and yet each was a tiny crack in her once impervious self. Each overture carried with it the ability to make her _feel_, whether she cared to or not. She was grateful for each and every one.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, honey?"

"How did you propose to Mom?"

Max chuckled. "I screwed it up. I tried to take her to a nice restaurant. Thought I'd slip the ring in her champagne, like the movies."

"Micah says the movies do it wrong," she chimed in.

"He's right. Your mother had an allergic reaction to the escargot appetizer. We ended up in the ER with her face broken out in hives, her dress ruined by the wine she knocked over when she couldn't breathe and me beside her, feeling like a jerk." He shook his head, smiling. "And because it had taken me forever to work up the courage to ask her, I went ahead and did it in the ER after they'd stabilized her. I told her… I told her I loved her and that not even hives could make her any less beautiful. That I needed her in my life, always."

"What did she say?"

"She said, 'You're proposing now?'" She and Max burst into laughter. "She said yes," he continued, "But she made me do it again when she was healthy."

Brennan smiled. "That was Mom."

Max nodded. "That was your mother. The moral of the story? Even if you screw everything up, Booth will say yes. He may tease you or make you try again, but he _will_ marry you. I'll let you in on a secret."

"What's that?"

With a wink, Max leaned closer. "I'm pretty sure he doesn't ever expect you to marry him, let alone propose. So make him sit on the couch before you start. You don't want to end up in the ER when he hits the hard floor and gets a concussion, do you?"

"Definitely not!" After a moment's thought, she embraced her father tightly. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. And if, for some reason, he says no? A tattoo of your beautiful face is the _least_ of his worries!"

* * *

She finished the draft that afternoon, studying the pages carefully in the safety of the women's washroom – the one place she knew Booth would never go. Her pen flashed quickly over a word, striking it out and exchanging it for another. A sentence was removed outright. But otherwise… this was it. _It's finally done._ Thirty-nine was the draft that would take.

She phoned Angela from the bathroom, beckoning her friend to her hiding place. Without explanation, she handed the pages to her and leaned against the wall, anxious for her opinion.

She began crying at the end of page one, and continued to cry to the very end.

"Sweetie, this… This is perfect. Better than perfect."

"Nothing is better than perfect. Perfect, by definition, leaves no room for improvement," Brennan replied.

"Oh stop with the logic! You know what I mean!" Angela embraced her tightly, the pages still clutched in her hand. "I'm so happy for you, Bren."

"He'll like it?"

Angela was beaming as she passed the pages back to her. "He will love it as much as he loves you and Christine."

She felt her body tingle with the pleasant anticipation she felt whenever she saw Booth after time apart of any length. "That's the best possible outcome, I think."

Dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, Angela nodded vigorously. "So you need your ring back, huh?"

"I also need a babysitter for Friday night," she replied.

"Cam's already watching Michael. I think that can be arranged."

"Oh, no! She might tell Booth –"

"Leave it to me, sweetie. I got it all under control," Angela assured her. "Speaking of, Booth walked in as I headed back here, so maybe I should take those notes with me to hide them?"

"What? Yes!" Brennan folded the pages neatly and thrust them at her friend. "Bring them back Friday morning with the ring."

"Done and done! Now go, greet your man."

Drawing a deep breath, she left Angela in the bathroom and returned to her office, where Booth stood waiting. His smile at the sight of her made her dizzy.

"There's my baby mama!" he teased. "And how's your day been?"

"You know I hate being called that!" she protested weakly, wrapping her arms around his neck. "And the day's been pretty quiet."

"Well, it's about to get noisy. Case over in Falls Church."

"And here I thought you just wanted to see me," she demurred.

"I always want to see you," he murmured in her ear. "Does it help that I was already on my way over when I got the message?"

"I think it does improve your standing."

They kissed briefly – she maintained a general stance of minimal personal displays during the workday – before she gathered her kit and field garments. _Two more days_, she told herself happily as she climbed into the Sequoia. _Two more days and he'll know just how much he means to me_.

* * *

The case, luckily, had been quickly resolved, and although their final reports remained unfinished, Booth had agreed that a date night was exactly what they needed. Angela's excuse to Cam had been "a concern" that "they're not getting enough downtime alone" and a hope that Cam "could help her give her best friend a gift". Cam had readily agreed.

Brennan was pacing now in Angela's office, wringing her hands as her friend urged her to calm down, to no avail. This was it. This was the day she'd ask him to marry her. She was terrified.

"Sweetie, calm down!"

"Are you sure they're okay?"

"I'm sure. It's going to be fine." Angela stepped into her path, bringing her to a halt. "Look: you love him, he loves you. That's the hard part, no matter how scary this feels. I promise."

"Okay." She glanced over at her purse, frowning. "Maybe I shouldn't have bought the ring. He's very traditional."

"I think it's awesome, and I'll kick his ass if he disagrees."

"Alert status red!" Hodgins hissed, entering the office. "He just walked in."

"Text me!" Angela whispered, kissing her cheek.

She heard him call out from the platform. "Bones?"

Tucking her purse strap over her shoulder, she stepped out of the office. "Right here. Ready to go?"

"Absolutely!" Glancing over at Angela and Hodgins, he added, "And we'll see you two later?"

It was the cover story she'd concocted: they were going on a double date at Angela's behest, hence their daughter being left in Cam's care. Hodgins nodded enthusiastically and Brennan was grateful for her friends and their support.

"See you later tonight," she said to Angela, maintaining the ruse.

As they walked out to Booth's vehicle, he was beaming. "This is great, Bones! A night off to do whatever we want. No interruptions."

"Spontaneity is very pleasurable," she agreed. Her favourite form of spontaneity involved a certain storage room at the Jeffersonian without cameras, although their romp in Hodgins' hot tub during a drunken game of Hide and Seek was a close second.

He opened her door, leaning in to kiss her. "I love you."

"I love you. Very much."

"Very, huh? I like this. You're upgrading me."

"How do you top perfection?" she asked.

He froze, studying her and for a moment, she wondered if somehow, she'd given her intentions away. His hand reached out for her, toying with her hair.

"You don't," he said quietly. "You don't settle. You wait for it and once you have it, you don't let go."

She felt her cheeks flush as he watched her slip into the passenger side, shutting her door for her. _Ever a gentleman_. Her anxiety remained, her limbs twitching lightly, but she also felt more certain of herself. _We're a family. We're strong. We have love_. She'd made the right decision.

* * *

"You sure you're okay to walk in those heels?" Booth asked.

"I'm fine. Besides, it's really nice outside."

"Still, the Lincoln memorial's a long walk from Founding Fathers."

Looping her arm through his, she pulled him along the sidewalk. "I'm fine! Let's go."

She knew damn well how long the walk was. She was counting on it. She'd timed it on her lunch break. Having gone home to change, Booth believed the plan was dinner and drinks at Founding Fathers with Angela and Hodgins. The actual plan was a little different.

They made their customary loop around the reflecting pool, idly chatting about the case and Fisher's latest complaints about his mother (at least he'd ditched the herbal tea that made him nearly incontinent while not improving his mood in the slightest). Booth mentioned overhearing Caroline on the phone and suggested she had a new boyfriend in her life, which intrigued Brennan. She wondered how puckish this new man made her for a brief moment before realizing that Booth wanted to head for the pub – meaning it was time for her to begin talking.

"Booth?"

"Yeah, Bones?"

"Can I ask you something?"

He paused and gave her a worried look. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing! I just…"

"Just what?"

With a deep breath, she replied, "I want to tell you some things. Good things. But I want you to promise me that you won't interrupt at all and will wait for me to say I'm finished talking."

"You're not pregnant, are you?" he teased.

"No! You know perfectly well I'm back on the injections," she replied. "Please? It's important to me."

"Then it's important to me, too," he said, kissing her. "Let's walk and you can talk."

It was time. She'd memorized her notes so she could avoid the embarrassment of reading off pages, but now she longed for them, just in case. _Be yourself_, she thought. _It doesn't have to be perfectly executed to be perfect for us_.

"I've done a lot of thinking recently about love and relationships," she began. "It's been a frustrating process for me because in all other areas of life, I wield language easily. I write novels. I can present a thesis and document my findings in a precise and articulate fashion. But the language for love and the metaphorical heart has been difficult for me to acquire. It's perhaps the only exception to my steep learning curve."

Booth smiled, chuckling quietly and she reflected it back at him. To say she was slow to grasp relationships was a vast understatement, and both of them knew it.

"When I was young, I never felt that I belonged with my peers. My best friend was Russ. He was always there for me, checking up on me at school. My parents were devoted as well. And then, as you know, everything changed the Christmas they didn't come home. My parents were gone, my brother left me to foster care, and I found myself in a very bad situation. In foster care, the kids always said, 'Don't get attached. They can't hurt you if you don't care'. Eventually, I took that to heart. Although my grandfather eventually pulled me out, I never opened myself up to him. My heart was locked away. I hid it. I hated it for existing."

She glanced over at Booth, comforted by the empathetic look he gave her. He understood rejection, understood the pain of betrayal as she'd experienced it. She forced a small smile to reassure him.

"People in university began making fun of me for never dating seriously, for always refusing companionship. Part of that was the fact that no one kept up with me intellectually, which made conversations dull, but part of it was my promise to not allow anyone in. I eventually began engaging in purely sexual relationships until Michael Stires became my supervisor. He seemed to understand me and was very intelligent. I decided to try and be loving, try and let myself be loved. It obviously didn't work out in the end. I tried again with Peter – even moved in with him for a while – but it fell to pieces. Both of them wanted me to be something I wasn't. They wanted me to change. I couldn't do it."

She paused, finding herself emotional as she recalled the cruel words exchanged with both men. The accusations of being heartless, cold, unfeeling… Immature even, when it came to love. Perhaps she was that, but she couldn't give more at that time. The wounds were still raw.

"Bones?" Booth gently asked.

"Sorry. I wandered off. I'll continue," she told him.

His hand reached for hers, squeezing it lightly. It was reassuring and made her feel safe. He always made her feel safe.

"I gave up on relationships and went back to individually addressing my needs. I had companions for intellectual endeavors and others for biological urges. It was very compartmentalized. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that every aspect of my life ended up in neat little metaphorical boxes. Then Sully came along, and for a moment, I thought, 'Well, we share work. We share a hectic lifestyle.' But again, a man wanted me to change myself, change my priorities."

They were stopped now at a street corner, waiting for a walk signal. Turning to Booth, she continued. "I realized years later that I wasn't as upset about Sully leaving as I once thought. I was more upset, to be honest, that a relationship with a Federal Agent failed. It implied that such relationships were as impossible as my prior attempts. Do you understand?"

Booth nodded, clearly emotional. She stretched up to kiss his cheek as the light changed.

"It didn't matter how hard I worked to remain impervious. Somehow, you broke me down. You found a way to make me feel safe in your presence. I could trust that any vulnerability I displayed would not be used as a weapon against me later. You made me feel stronger, made me feel… acceptable. You proved to me that I could be myself and still deserve compassion and concern. That I was worth getting to know."

"You're an incredible woman," he interrupted. "Your uniqueness is what makes you so lovable."

She flushed as he apologized for speaking and gestured for her to continue. She'd expected him to break his promised silence at least once. His compliments steeled her resolve.

"The Hoover… I told you I couldn't change, that I didn't have your heart. But it was so much more than that. It was the fear that I'd ruin what we had, and I couldn't risk it. I hadn't understood what I was missing in life until you gave it to me. History assured me that I would fail, that you would leave. I couldn't imagine life without you. I couldn't let my heart out of that imaginary box, because if it were crushed one more time… I don't know what I'd do."

She held her breath, telling herself not to cry. _It's the past. It's over. It was necessary for us to evolve_.

"To give you an idea of how little I trusted the world, I confess that I barely slept before we became a couple. Sleep took people from me. My parents. Russ. Michael ran out in the middle of the night. But I could sleep if you promised me you'd pick me up in the morning. I trusted you. I trusted that I wouldn't lose you, and I would rest. Once I realized that in Maluku, I understood that all of the evidence pointed to things being different for us. We could work it out. We could succeed. But I came home and… We know what happened."

They were growing close to Founding Fathers now, and she knew she had to pick up the pace. She also knew that he wouldn't maintain his silence much longer; she could feel his body twitching, feel his impatient desire to speak.

"I tell you all of this now to provide a context within which you can appreciate how truly grateful I am to have you in my life. I'm grateful that you spent years at my side, protecting me and encouraging me to be more open, to love freely. I'm grateful for the big things, but also the little things. Burying Ripley, helping me get my father acquitted, countless nights of take-out food and drinks, coffee – the little things matter. They're the pieces of the whole." Glancing over at him, she added, "I know you're grateful for me, too. I promise I'm almost done."

Booth grinned. "You know me so well."

"I do," she replied. "I'm grateful that you've let me know you. I know you were guarded as well. I don't underestimate the significance of that trust. My life is richer with you in it, Booth. Angela painted love – it was a prism, a rainbow. My life was missing colours before you helped me heal my heart. I know objectively that my eyes and the corresponding cerebral cortex have not changed, but things do seem different in terms of how I perceive them. As a unit, we've evolved. We've adapted and shifted as life changes course, but the shape of us, the dynamic, it remains the same. You call that fate, I believe; I like to think of it as Darwinian principles. We adapt and thus, we endure."

One more block. They were again halted by a traffic light, awaiting their opportunity to cross. She squeezed his hand, smiling as he echoed the gesture.

"In examining love, I could not help but examine marriage, given how entwined the two concepts are in our society. As a social institution, it's ridiculous to me. The fact that a piece of paper dictates aspects of our lives over which no government should have the right to control irritates me. It's devalued. It's a tax break, a means of ensuring that families are not kept apart in emergencies. The love gets buried beneath that. But I then thought of other cultures, of how marriage is constructed for other societies and faith systems, and realized that marriage has a vast array of definitions. For example, the purpose of marriage in the Bahá'i faith is mainly to foster spiritual harmony, fellowship and unity between a man and a woman and to provide a stable and loving environment for the rearing of children. It's a fortress of well-being. In the Waorani Tribe of Ecuador, the marriage is bound with song, one that simply encourages the couple to love each other and never let go. Neo-pagans persist in the tradition of handfasting, a ceremony that is often renewed each year. The couples re-commit each and every year, or part, as the case may be. The problem, then, is marriage as defined in our society."

"Bones…"

She shook her head. "Please, don't… Booth, I am grateful you've never pushed marriage for us. I'm grateful that you've always accepted my views on the subject, even though I'm aware of how important it is to you. What I am getting at is that my viewpoint is too ethnocentric. Marriage… it can be egalitarian. Women are not always chattel. The notion of continually affirming love is a pleasant one, as is the view of family as a fortress that protects progeny. Marriage need not be the status quo; it can be redefined. It can be as simple as a celebration of true acceptance. Like christening our daughter, it can be about respecting the value of a ritual to someone I love. Instead of condemning it, I can challenge it."

She halted outside the door of Founding Fathers, turning to face her partner in all ways. She was briefly troubled that his eyes were moist, until she registered the light in them. _Happy tears_, she reassured herself. _He understands_.

"I brought you here tonight not to meet with Angela and Hodgins, but because it is our place. It is where I understood how truly heroic and loving you are, how you quietly make the world better by being in it. It was here where I truly understood that love was more than chemical reactions. It was here that we began again with drinks shared in your anger. It's a place of beginnings for us."

Reaching into her purse, she withdrew the small black ring box. "This is hardly traditional, but we've never been traditional. I can't promise to get everything right. I can't promise that I won't say something that inadvertently hurts or offends you during the course of our preparations. I can promise that I love you and will always work to evolve with you. I can assure you that I love you as you are, that I have given you my metaphorical heart and trust you to protect it. I can tell you that we are something worth celebrating. You are my fortress, Booth. I ask that you let me be yours in return."

Opening the box with trembling fingers, she revealed the ring she'd chosen for herself: a platinum band with a square-cut diamond (ethically sourced, of course) flanked by two smaller sapphires. The streetlights lent an ethereal twinkling to the gemstones, reminding her of Micah's constellation analogy. She handed him the box, startled by the energy that seemed to pass between them as their fingers touched.

"You can talk now," she whispered anxiously.

"You're asking… I'm dreaming," Booth said, blinking rapidly. "Another brain tumor?"

"I'm asking, Booth. Just as you said I would. Did I overstep my boundaries?"

"No, not at all. I just… I'd already come to terms with the fact that we might never get married." He grinned as he pulled the ring from its cushion. "You want to marry me?"

"Yes," she answered. "I'm proposing marriage. Do you accept?"

He reached for her left hand, bringing it to his lips before sliding the ring onto her finger. "I would be honoured to marry you."

She found herself giggling, uncontrollably happy. She couldn't explain it, nor could she fully explain how he came to laugh too, hoisting her into the air and swinging her around in a circle. When his mouth found hers, all thought was lost: all that remained was Booth and Brennan and love. She scarcely noticed the passers-by who began to cheer and clap as they kissed. Even as she took note of them, she could only think, _Love should be applauded. _

"I love you." He pulled her against his chest, where she could hear his heart racing. "I'm grateful for you, too. You've made me the man that I am."

"We bring out the best in each other, I think."

"Agreed." He jerked his head to the side. "Celebratory wine? Was that the plan?"

She nodded. "Dinner, too. We'll need the energy later."

"Oh really?"

She grinned. "I didn't arrange overnight care for Christine for us to sit and watch TV."

"Well, let's head inside then. But first…"

He kissed her again, gentler this time. Sweet. Her own heart seemed to be experiencing palpitations now, but she knew that this was common in his presence. She'd jokingly called it a "love attack" one night after Booth had grown concerned.

"Bones?"

"Hmm?"

Leaning in beside her ear, he whispered, "I told you so."

Rolling her eyes, she coyly replied, "Well, you know I never back down from a challenge."

"Neither do I."

"Obviously. You stood by me, after all."

"I knew you were worth it."

The scientist in her wanted to challenge the statement, point out the lack of evidence their first case would have provided. The woman in her – the one who'd learned to love – silenced the scientist. For him.

The hostess arrived and brought them to a table, where wine was quickly ordered and a toast made.

"To beginnings," she said.

"To fate," he replied.

"To evolution," she countered playfully.

"To us."

"You win," she murmured, clinking her glass against his. "To us."

She'd barely swallowed her mouthful of wine when the music on the speakers overhead switched to a very familiar melody. Booth broke out in laughter, hooting his approval.

"What are the odds?"

"I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question, as calculating them would take a great deal of time I don't care to spend," Brennan replied.

"Let's dance!" he exclaimed, standing up.

"What? No! People don't dance in pubs, Booth!"

"But it's our song and we're celebrating!" He flashed that half-grin of his that always weakened her resolve, strumming an invisible guitar. "C'mon, Bones. What are you afraid of?"

A slow smile crept over her lips as she considered his question. What did she really have to fear? Death? They'd faced that. Separation? Survived it. Glancing down at her left hand, she knew the answer.

"Absolutely nothing," she replied, extending her hand to him.


	14. The Never In The Happily Ever After

**_AN: I have been incredibly busy of late, and I apologize. I'm slacking on reviews and keeping up with PMs. This is my blanket "If I've been reading your story, I'm still reading and just not having time to review" apology. This wasn't the prompt I'd planned to handle next, but the idea popped out so I let it ramble away. _  
**

**TITLE: The Never In The Happily Ever After**  
**TAG TO: The End In The Beginning**; **spoilers for Harbingers In A Fountain**  
**PROMPT: For NCISVILLE, a "what happened next?" The End In The Beginning: "Who are you?"**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

"Who are you?"

The question left her reeling. _Oh no_, she thought anxiously. The doctors had warned her that there was a chance Booth would experience amnesia, a strong one. But he was Booth. He was the strongest person she knew. It had never even crossed her mind to consider it a viable possibility.

"I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan," she said calmly. "I'm a forensic anthropologist with the Jeffersonian. We're partners."

"But…" His hand raised slightly, only to fall weakly onto the bed once more. "Bren, stop it. It's not funny."

_Bren?_ She felt her stomach lurch, the bile and coffee sloshing around uncomfortably. _The story_.

"Booth, I was reading you a story while you were unconscious. Maybe you should rest for a few minutes, let your memory come back to you. I'll get the doctor."

The doctor would be able to help. The doctor would know how best to clear up this confusion. For a moment, it seemed Booth was beginning to understand that his mind was not in order. But then, she heard him call out.

"Is the baby okay?"

Brennan winced. "Let me get the doctor."

Rushing into the hall, she flagged a nurse down and informed her of Booth's condition. She left to page the doctor on call and Brennan slumped into a chair in the waiting area just beyond the ICU. How could she have been so utterly foolish? She was a scientist, well aware of the research indicating that comatose patients could hear and perceive events around them. Her stupid exercise – her story that she'd written as days blurred into nights into days anew to stay awake – had confused Booth. Disoriented from brain surgery and a near-fatal reaction to anesthetic, she'd sunk foolish notions into his head. _Why did I read it to him? This is my fault!_ Her hand struck the armrest of the chair as she pressed her eyes closed.

_You did it to make him happy. You did it to make yourself happy_.

Brennan shook her head, immediately feeling foolish. She was arguing with herself now. Irrational. Stupid. And yet, she remembered the story's origin, relived the minutes that felt like hours now, as she sat in the waiting room, ignoring the drone of the TV. The doctor had nearly dropped his scalpel when Booth began to talk. Her eyes had widened as she watched his, studying him for signs of pain.

"Bones… Bones…"

"Booth, I'm here. Do you hurt?" She'd looked at the doctor in terror. "Why is he awake?"

"I don't know," he'd muttered, glaring at the anesthesiologist.

"He's not awake," the young woman had replied. "He's talking while unconscious. Should I put him deeper?"

"Bones… The line…" Booth's voice, so hoarse, had seemed deafening. "Stupid line…"

"Line?"

Brennan had stared the doctor down. _This isn't meant for you_.

"That should do it," the woman had announced.

Brennan had watched helplessly as Booth slipped back under, but not before he'd uttered the words that would haunt her forever.

"Love you… too much to… my kid."

Brennan's eyes opened, glaring at the off-white wall across from her. Booth had nearly died in the operating room, with her again powerless to stop it. The coma was equally heart-crushing to learn of. He couldn't be alone, she'd decided. Angela had graciously run to her apartment to fetch a few things – laptop, a change of clothes, toothbrush, deodorant – and she'd made herself at home at his side.

But her novel wouldn't come, despite being several weeks behind on the final chapters. Her mind – and heart – were fixed on the man beside her, the whirring and beeps and blips of the machines keeping him alive. Still, the words haunted her, both before and after surgery.

_The line is stupid. He loves me. He doesn't want to not be a father to my child_.

She wasn't delusional; she knew why Booth, and not Fisher, had to be the father. Genetics were certainly a factor, as she'd espoused to all concerned. But there was a part of her that knew that someday, Booth would leave her, as everyone did. She cared too much about him, and with caring eventually came disaster. He'd rejected her years ago after their first case – had only wanted intercourse. He'd wanted Cam, not her. Had re-drawn his line after the Epps case. Partnership worked between them. He was there for her, as she was there for him. But romance… Love… It ruined things. It always did.

And if the partnership severed someday, at least she'd have a child who would possess his features and love fiercely. The bond of mother and child was far more difficult to destroy.

The story had come without forethought, her fingers flying over the keys. High-risk jobs required lines, but running a night club… Well, that was mundane. Normal. As the tale of Mr. B and Bren grew longer and more expansive, she found herself lost within her own electronic pages. It would be easier to be average, she believed. Maybe people wouldn't shun her. Maybe they would see all of the love she desperately kept locked away, lest someone fashion it into a metaphorical weapon, a weakness in her armor. And Booth… Maybe he would choose her, if there were no lines drawn by either of them.

She read aloud as she typed, wanting to believe that Booth could hear her, that he could imagine such a world and perhaps feel that in another life, they would be together. But not this one; she made that clear by drawing the line firmly between the officers in her story. They were strictly partners.

She dreamed up the world that they never could have, baby included. No matter what he'd said before surgery, she couldn't proceed with the insemination process now. She would remain alone.

"Dr. Brennan?"

She glanced up, relieved to see Dr. Randolph. "Booth seems to be experiencing amnesia, and I fear I've contributed to it."

The doctor nodded. "He believes you are his wife. I told him I would come find you. He's afraid you're experiencing morning sickness and trying not to concern him."

Brennan sighed. "I was reading aloud from my novel and it would seem he's inserted us into that world. How do we reason with him? I don't want to cause him further harm."

"Perhaps showing him photos of himself and his family, items from his job, that sort of thing?" The doctor sighed. "He's very insistent that he's your husband. There was also some talk of a night club and Motley Crue?"

"I don't know what that last part means," she said, puzzled. "I can't be his wife. I can't… pretend."

_Pretending would hurt too much_.

"Please don't. I think it's best that we continue to stress that he's had a very vivid dream and remind him of reality," Dr. Randolph replied. "Dr. Brennan, your contradicting the dream may make him angry. Please try not to take it personally. I fully expect he will recover his memories soon enough."

"I'd like tests run to ensure there's no permanent damage."

Dr. Randolph nodded reluctantly. "I'll arrange for some scans. In the meantime, you'll need to go back to him."

"Thank you."

She watched Dr. Randolph retreat, inhaling deeply and holding it to centre herself. _Booth needs you_, she told herself. _Just tell him the truth. Don't take it personally_. She couldn't tell him the truth, though; that was the problem. She had to tell _his version of the truth_.

She nearly burst into tears at the grin he gave her and she froze in the doorway, hand pressed to the frame to steady herself.

"Bren, you don't have to pretend to be fine," he said. "Pregnancy is rough sometimes, from what I've heard."

"Booth-"

"We're partners," he continued. "That's what marriage is all about: sharing everything."

_Not everything_, she thought sadly. She approached the bed slowly, mulling her words carefully.

"Booth, we're not married. That was a dream," she told him gently. "We're friends. Good friends. We work together."

"Bren-"

"Bones. You call me Bones, because of my profession. I used to hate it, but now, I like it. Only you call me Bones." She smiled reassuringly. "I promise that you'll begin to remember soon enough."

Booth frowned, licking his dry lips. "But it's real. I know it's real."

"Booth-"

"I can see it in your eyes," he interrupted. "I know you love me. Why are you lying to me?"

Why, indeed. _To protect you. To protect me. _

"I'm not lying," she insisted. "I don't even believe in marriage. I'm so sorry I read that story to you. I should have known the potential ramifications."

"Kiss me," he said.

She felt her jaw slacken. "What?"

"If we're just friends, I'll feel it," Booth explained. "Need to know… know what's real."

"That's highly inappropriate," she countered anxiously.

He coughed, eyes squinting. "Please…for me."

She hated him. Hated him and loved him. But maybe it would work. She would be cold and unfeeling about it and perhaps that would be the spark that would put this behind them. And so she pressed her lips to his and felt her heart race at the contact, heard herself moan unwillingly as his tongue grazed her lower lip. It was that night five years ago all over again, only worse. She was sober. She couldn't blame the way her body felt scorching hot on tequila. She pulled herself away, struggling to keep composure.

"See? I knew you were my wife," Booth murmured happily.

"I'm not your wife, Booth. I'm not, and you need to remember the truth!"

She couldn't stay, wouldn't stay. She fled the room, managing to keep the tears at bay until she slammed into the women's restroom. Furiously, she rubbed at her lips, as if that would somehow erase the memory of him, the taste.

"It wasn't real," she whispered to no one.

Deep down, a tiny, terrified part of herself wanted him to never remember the truth.

* * *

_**The look of near terror when Booth says he loves her in Harbingers always strikes me... As does the chatter with Avalon about how could anyone love Brennan. As much as Booth seems more aware of emotion, I think Brennan was definitely the one Gordon said was "aware" of the love and fought it every day. Thoughts? Share away!  
**_


	15. The Public In The Display Of Affection

**TITLE: ****The Public In the Display Of Affection**  
**TAG TO: Spoilers Through The Change In The Game; set about a month later**  
**PROMPT: From Bitesize Bones: "Pre or during s7: WHAT IF one of their friends complains about B&B's total lack of public displays of affection and maybe even questions their really being together?[Humor me, do not consider the events of "Family in the Feud", pretend they never kiss or hold hands if someone else is present...which is not that false anyway...]**"  
**RATING: T**

* * *

"It's not fair!"

Daisy Wick glanced up from the remains on her table as Angela stormed into the lab, Hodgins close behind her. While she wasn't invited into the conversation, she certainly couldn't help overhearing it, now could she? Picking up the left femur, she pretended to examine the healed fracture she'd already documented and kept her ear trained to her left.

"Ange, not everyone is like you," Hodgins said. "Especially Dr. B. She's private."

"Lose the logic, Jack! It's been four weeks and nothing. Not a kiss, not an ass grab, not even a lingering hug! I'm restricted from sex for two more weeks. Would it kill them to allow me to indulge in a vicarious romantic squee?"

"I'm not enough for you now?" Hodgins asked.

"You are! It's just… They _finally_ got it right. I thought that Booth would… well, be Booth! Loosen her up a bit!" Angela sighed, kicking lightly at her office door. "I thought Bren would finally show her emotions."

"Through PDA," Jack concluded.

"Yes!"

Daisy placed the bone on the table, terrified she might drop it. _Are Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan together now? Why didn't Lancelot tell me? Does he know?_ Oh, this was simply too good _not _ to share! Anyone with half a brain cell – and she certainly had many, given her stellar grades and anthropological aptitude – could see that they were meant for each other. And yet, now that she considered Angela's complaints, she had to agree: why hadn't she noticed it during the case last week? She'd accompanied them into the field twice and nothing had seemed different, aside from Dr. Brennan refusing to eat more vehemently.

"Ms. Wick? Are you finished with the remains?"

Daisy glanced up at Dr. Saroyan and smiled. "Almost! Given the historical information provided, I'd say we have a match. I just want to confirm my findings on the skull."

Dr. Saroyan nodded. "Very good. Make sure you file the documentation downstairs before shelving the remains.

"Cam!" Angela called out. "Come here and gripe with me. Hodgins doesn't get it."

With an exasperated sigh, Dr. Saroyan stepped off the platform and headed into the office, passing a disgruntled Hodgins on the way. Daisy seized her opportunity to run to the lounge and make a very important call. If Lancelot had held back on her, she would deny him a thing or two in the bedroom.

* * *

"Wait a minute: they're _together_ together?" Wendell asked.

"Yes! Apparently, they didn't tell Lance because they wanted to ensure the FBI would approve," Daisy replied, reaching for a pretzel. "Plus, he says they knew I'd tell all of you."

Clark snickered as Fisher said, "Daisy, you're a megaphone on legs in a lab coat."

"I can keep a secret!" she insisted.

"Sure you can," Wendell snarked. "So, Booth and Dr. Brennan, huh?"

Daisy grinned. "Yes, according to what Angela said. B&B, as I call them now. Isn't that a cute couple moniker?"

"A B&B is where you go to shag a girl senseless and maintain the illusion of rustic romance," Fisher noted. "Great breakfasts, usually. Sometimes, I go just for those."

Wendell and Daisy exchanged glances, silently agreeing to ignore Fisher's eccentricity and move on.

"So Angela was complaining because there's a serious lack of PDA, and well, what's the fun in that? I know that Ms. Julian found a way to ensure their partnership couldn't be severed, so there's no need to hide. It'd be nice to see Dr. Brennan have fun and live a little, don't you think?"

"True. I think it's been a while. She's been cranky for months," Fisher concurred.

"Seriously! What's with all the extra Limbo time?' Wendell asked.

"Maybe it's so she and Agent Booth can sneak off somewhere and get physical!" Daisy clapped her hands excitedly. "I bet that's why we never see anything. Sneaking around is fun. Lance and I—"

"Please, no!" Wendell groaned. "Keep on topic. You said you had a group project in mind when you asked us out for a pub night."

Pulling a notebook from her purse, Daisy took a large swig of her beer and flipped it open. "I say we make it our mission to bust the new couple in a display of affection. To make it a little more fun, I think a little Squintern pool is in order."

Fisher laughed, a rarity. "Love it. Positively invasive yet so satisfying."

Wendell shook his head. "Booth's gonna kill you if he finds out."

"So don't tell him, Wendell! Come on! Lance already chose his date and threw in his twenty bucks."

"Twenty bucks each?" Wendell's need for cash was crushing his conscience. "How's this going to work?"

"We pick a date," Daisy said, gesturing to a calendar inside the notebook calendar. "The person who guesses closest without their date passing wins the pot. Eighty bucks buys a lot of beer and wings, gentlemen, and I'm betting Angela would like to get in on this, too."

Pulling a crisp twenty from his wallet, Fisher nodded. "June twenty-third for the closet freaks to tumble out onto the floor. Let the games begin."

* * *

It was Fisher's turn to dig through the remains in Limbo, and he was thoroughly unimpressed.

While granted, there was no case currently under investigation at the Jeffersonian, Dr. Brennan's obsession with clearing the backlog downstairs seemed incredibly peculiar. His psychiatrist would say it was a defense mechanism of some kind, a diversion. It was how he knew that she and Agent Booth were intimate. Wendell remained doubtful, insisting that as hockey buddies, Booth would have mentioned it to him. Fisher, however, knew they were knocking boots. Someone with as much sexual experience as he had could pinpoint that sort of satisfaction a mile away.

Glancing at the bin number he was supposed to retrieve on the scrap of paper, he halted, listening intently. Someone else was down here. Ten seconds went by before he heard the shoe scrape against the floor once more. Then, he heard it:

A giggle. A feminine giggle.

He walked gingerly across the floor, attempting to pinpoint the giggler's location. He heard more shuffling, a gasp following soon after. Oh, yeah. Someone was definitely getting action down here, taking full advantage of the lack of cameras. As he peered around a corner, he fought the urge to pump his fist.

Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth were making out against a wall. On June 22nd.

"Booth, stop!" she hissed, breaking away with a grin. "Someone could come down here."

"Who cares?" Booth murmured. "Pretty soon, everyone will figure it out anyway." At this, his hand came to rest on her abdomen.

_The plot thickens!_

"I know. It's just that this… it's ours. We don't have long before we'll have another life to consider in all of our choices." Dr. Brennan bowed her head shyly. "What's between us—"

"Is between us," Booth said, moving in for another kiss.

Fisher backed away slowly, counted to three and then deliberately stomped his way back towards the storage boxes. He heard a flurry of movement just as he rounded the corner and found a flushed Dr. Brennan and grinning Agent Booth.

"Mr. Fisher," his supervisor said. "What brings you down here?"

"Dr. Saroyan stated that I was to catalogue the remains of a specific bin," he replied casually. "Should I be doing something else?"

"Oh, no, proceed. That would be helpful. I've found myself behind schedule this month."

She was trying very hard to sound nonchalant, but Fisher knew better. However, he simply nodded and said nothing as the two partners headed back upstairs, leaving Fisher alone with his knowledge and his cell phone. He reached for the latter now, texting the members of their secret pool.

_Make-out session, Limbo. Pay up_.

He would keep the pregnancy to himself, he decided. As much fun as it was to spy on secret lovers, some things were meant to remain private until revealed. His fellow interns would know soon enough.

* * *

Halfway up the stairs, Brennan paused and turned to Booth. "He caught us, didn't he?"

Booth nodded. "Oh, yeah. He knows."

"Damn it."

"It's before July 1st, Bones," Booth pointed out.

Rolling her eyes, Brennan groaned. "You won. Dinner's on me tonight."

"And you have to watch the game."

"And I have to watch the game," she echoed bitterly. "I remember the complicated matrix of terms concerning our wager, which wasn't very appropriate given your history." At his frown, she quickly added, "I understand the difference you expressed, but you can't fault me for wanting to find a loophole to render it null and void."

Booth chuckled at her frustration. "Hey, cheer up. At least it wasn't Daisy. You would have had to have a baby shower with bright pink decorations if it was her."

Brennan shuddered. "If there was a God, I would be thanking him for that fortunate truth."

With a devilish grin, Booth seized her hand, interlacing their fingers. "Come on, let's go drive Angela nuts."

Hand in hand, they strolled into Angela's office, from which the entire lab could hear a frustrated wail.

"Goddamn it, I had June twenty-first!"

* * *

_**This was such a fun prompt to play with; kudos, anon commenter! Please review, chat me up, feed my ego (haha, kidding!). I have another prompt written and ready to post. A very fun one from one of**** you!**_


	16. The Brand On The Bullish Agent

**_AN: This one's short, but fun. It was definitely NOT an expected prompt, and I put it off for a while, figuring eventually, it'd come to me. Sure enough, it has, although it's not QUITE what you asked for. For you, Rouzwud!_  
**

**TITLE: The Brand On The Bullish Agent**  
**TAG TO: Post 7X13; Post 8X1**  
**PROMPT: "Sometime after season six Booth has to explain to a member of a hockey team why he has a tattoo of a femur with the word "Bones" on his butt cheek - all I'm saying is locker rooms and towels that slip.**"  
**RATING: T**

* * *

It started out as a typical locker room goof moment.

Wendell had blown a shot and cost them the overtime period they needed to win. It was a long shot in the first place, but it was still a screw-up. While the guys were competitive – it came with the testosterone – they never truly got upset over a loss. They bitched about it. They vowed vengeance on the opposing team. And, at times like this, the locker room became prank central.

First, Robbie had swapped his shampoo for a similar looking bottle of floral shower gel. Then, James had hidden his clothes, laughing as Wendell hunted around in a towel. The last straw: Booth had smacked his ass with a towel, thereby knocking his to the floor and leaving him covering his junk with his hand. Finally fed up, Wendell had yanked Booth's towel off his waist, understanding quickly why the agent yelped and grabbed desperately at the falling towel.

"Is that a tattoo?" Wendell exclaimed.

"Shut up, Wendell!" Booth hissed, pulling his boxers from his locker and scrambling to put them on.

"You got a new tattoo, Seeley?" Robbie asked. "Let's see it!"

"I don't have a goddamn new tattoo! And don't call me Seeley, asshat!"

Wendell understood the denials: if the guys saw this tattoo, they'd never let him live it down. "Nah, he doesn't have one. Just an ugly ass!"

Booth glared at him, continuing to dress quickly. "If I had another tattoo, everyone would know because it would be as awesome as these." He waved his middle fingers in the air as he displayed his wrist tattoos. "Got it?"

Wendell dressed quickly, hurrying to keep pace with Booth. He _had _to know this backstory and considering he'd covered with the team, he figured Booth owed him. He pursued him into the parking lot, where Dr. Brennan was waiting with Christine.

"You lost, Wendell?" Booth growled.

"You owe me this story, Booth."

"Go to hell!" He smiled at his partner. "Hey, Bones! Wendell's as incompetent at hockey as he is at anthropology!"

"So he played an average game?" she asked, completely serious.

Wendell winced. No matter if it was right or wrong of him, she'd never quite forgiven him for being so quick to point out how the murder evidence fit her months ago.

"Booth's just mad because I saw your brand on his right cheek," Wendell retorted.

Brennan laughed. "By brand, I assume you refer to the somewhat cartoonish femur with the word 'Bones' inside it?"

"Shh! Both of you, shut up!" Booth hissed.

"It had nothing to do with me," Brennan continued, as casual as if she were discussing the local weather. "Billy Gibbons paid for it."

"Angela's dad?" Wendell let out a low whistle. "How'd you piss him off?"

"It's personal, Wendell—"

"Apparently, Mr. Gibbons didn't appreciate that Booth was aloof upon my return, even though I said I understood perfectly why we'd need time to adjust. Hodgins called him up about a week after a fight we had and I didn't see him until the morning." Brennan shrugged. "It's not a big deal, Booth. I find myself strangely proud of you wearing my name on your skin."

Booth was clearly flabbergasted. "Not a big deal? Bones, it's a _tattoo_. Permanent?"

"At least he had it done on your posterior, as opposed to your bicep, like Hodgins," she countered.

"He said it was because I was being a horse's ass!"

Wendell took a step backwards, knowing when it was time to bow gracefully out of a brewing storm. "I'll see you both at the lab."

"Well, it's certainly not my fault that Mr. Gibbons believes love trumps everything," Brennan argued. "My father wanted to break your nose."

"I would have _preferred_ the nose!"

"Yeah, I'll just be going…"

As Wendell walked away, he could still hear the two of them bickering. It was kind of sweet, in its own way. But the next time Booth hassled him in the locker room, there would be hell to pay…


	17. The Reminder On The Radio

_**A while back, while working on an earlier prompt, a parallel thought came to me. If "Hot Blooded" is their song and evokes a positive reaction in spite of the explosion, what would happen if Cyndi Lauper popped up on the radio? Flash forward a good month later, and I suddenly thought of a way to slip that moment into an existing episode where I felt a lot happened off-screen that we really ought to have seen.**_

**TITLE: The Reminder On The Radio**  
**TAG TO: The Beginning In The End**  
**PROMPT: Brennan hears "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" for the first time since Booth was shot protecting her. **  
**RATING: T**

* * *

His words continued to echo inside her skull as they sat silently, sipping their coffees. "_Things have to change."_ But what things, and what changes? This talk she'd arranged – demanded, really – was supposed to bring clarity; instead, Brennan found herself more uncertain than ever. In the past few months, she'd had a sense that Booth had lied about moving on, that he wasn't truly trying to do so. A wistful smile briefly crossed her lips as she recalled the rock camp, remembered the way his face lit up as he called it _their song_. A part of her – the part that longed and ached for the ability to be what he wanted her to be – seemed to grow metaphorically larger that day.

But then, the Gravedigger trial had happened, and with it came the crushing sense that nothing they did was enough, that it was all so incredibly futile. The killers kept on killing, and she was assembling the pieces. There was nothing within her work that seemed beautiful, unmarred. The sadness of it all had begun to take its toll, and she couldn't discern the _why_ of the matter. It simply was. In shuttering her heart to continue her job, she found herself again doubting her ability to be loving, let alone loved. But Booth was there, and she tried to see what he saw. She could trust his heart, trust that she knew it.

And then the Army had come calling, and now nothing was as she'd assumed. She never would have thought to take on the Maluku Islands project before that damn trial; she simply could not leave Booth. Even afterwards, as she wrestled with her emotions, she still didn't feel like she could leave. They were a team. Partners. If she had nothing else in this world that she could believe in, she had Angela and Booth. But here they were, and contrary to what she'd believed, Booth was ready to head off to Afghanistan, leaving Parker and the Bureau behind.

He was ready to leave her behind, both physically and – given his recent statement – emotionally.

She'd understood the terms he'd set out on the steps of the Hoover months prior, but a part of her had remained utterly confused. If love was timeless, if it could last fifty years, how could he choose to simply move on within minutes? Her parents had abandoned her so many years ago, and although she'd resolved to keep them out of her life forever, she'd never been able to actually do it. She'd never stopped loving her brother, never stopped wanting her parents back. The little moments since that night had seemed to affirm that Booth, like her, couldn't simply dismiss their connection that way. She had time to try, time to work on change and become a woman worthy of Booth. She had time to gather evidence and decide if Booth's premise of "knowing from the beginning" held enough weight to trust it.

She drained her travel cup, scrunching her face at the inevitable bitterness of the final mouthful. Booth wanted change. He wanted to leave and come back to a different world, perhaps one without their partnership. If Brennan was a weaker person, she would be in tears.

"Bones, you ready?"

She glanced up at Booth, startled that she hadn't noticed him stand up. With a nod, she followed him, watching as he tossed his cup in the bin near the cart. _Their_ cart.

"I have some paperwork to do at the office," Booth said. "Are you going back to the lab?"

"Yes. I'm hoping Dr. Hodgins will have further information about the samples he collected from the apartment."

"Did you want a lift back to your place later?"

Casual questions. No one passing them on the sidewalk right now would suspect how many questions were being asked within each one. Brennan had never been great with innuendo, but even she knew that Booth was asking something else.

"No, I'll grab a ride with Angela," she replied. "I did leave a file in your vehicle that I need to retrieve before you go."

"Sure, Bones. No problem."

His shoulders relaxed slightly and she fought to keep her face neutral. _He's relieved_. Booth didn't want to see her again today. She couldn't confront him on it, didn't dare to. Instead, they walked on silently, their steps quickening just enough for their customary ten-minute walk to become seven minutes in duration. Their crossing of the parking lot was also hurried, although that was more her doing than his. She'd never been able to find comfort within the maze of concrete since her abduction by Heather Taffet; it was why she often solicited rides from Booth. With him, she was safe here. Alone…

_No. Stop it. It's foolish to allow emotion to override logic. Taffet is in jail now. I am perfectly safe_.

Booth slid behind the wheel and turned the engine over as she pulled open the passenger side door. Her file was tucked beneath her seat, just as she'd left it. It was details of the Maluku project, but Booth didn't need to know that.

"Call me if Hodgins finds anything," Booth said, fiddling with the volume for the stereo.

"Of course," she answered, making a show of checking her file. _Don't go like this_, she added silently.

Music was now piping through the speaker system around them. With a disapproving look at the display, Booth jammed on a preset button, then another quickly.

"I'll let you know if Charlie found anything for me," Booth said.

Brennan was about to answer, about to put this ridiculous game of evasion to rest, but instead found herself frozen.

"_Some boys take a beautiful girl and hide her away from the rest of the world…_"

She'd worked very, very hard not to hear this song ever again. She'd deleted it from her iPod. She'd hidden the CD and no longer listened to radio. Drawing a deep breath, she blinked hard, struggling to focus.

"_I wanna be the one to walk in the sun. Oh, girls just want to have fun…_"

"Shit!"

Booth's hand flew out, silencing the radio, but it was too late: she was back there. She was in the nightmare that visited her at least once every single week. She shut the car door with a loud slam and immediately winced as a gun fired in her head.

"Bones?"

She took two steps backwards, her hands suddenly sticky. She could smell blood, could feel the erratic pulsing of a heart within her palms. A second shot, echoing. _I killed her. I'm not sorry_. She closed her eyes, struck with the image of that damn doctor telling her that he was gone.

"Bones!" Two hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her gently. "C'mon, Bones, talk to me."

Her hand stretched out, coming to rest over the scar tissue without the aid of her eyes. Her life was connected to that healed wound and would forever be. She was the cause of so many scars on a body already battered by war – at home and overseas.

"I'm fine," she lied. "You should go."

"You look ready to drop," Booth countered.

Her coffee cup was inside his car, forgotten. It could stay there. She needed to leave, needed to run. Her neck began to burn with the memory of her abduction and suddenly, this garage was very, very small. And still, she could smell blood.

"I'm fine," she repeated, opening her eyes and pulling away. "I was simply caught off-guard. I should go. I have to speak with Hodgins."

"Bones, don't do this. Don't shut me out."

_I have to_, she thought sadly. _For your own good_. She spun around and rushed towards the stairs, unwilling to use the elevator. Too small. Too much like a car. She could hear Angela sobbing, hear the paramedics urging her out of the way. Her footsteps on the concrete stairs echoed her heart and its harried beat.

He didn't follow her. She wondered later, when the memories faded, if she was grateful or disappointed.

* * *

She'd taken a cab to the Hoover when Booth called about the man with the gnome statue. The value of what was essentially a lawn adornment that she found rather ugly was shocking, but the questioning was straightforward. Booth had seemed impatient, while Ms. Julian was simply irritated.

Her accusation that they were running from each other stung. She didn't feel she was running. She merely needed the perspective that a distant dig always provided her with. It was impossible to assess her priorities and emotions while others were near, their own emotions easy to discern. But Booth was running. Running and changing.

She'd taught him evolution, he'd said. She cursed herself for it.

She'd lied to him about heading home, slipping into the cab and immediately directing it to the Jeffersonian. She needed to be home, but not in the sense that Booth understood the term. Examining bones offered a way to shut down her own thoughts and feelings and reconstruct the life before her.

Only instead, she glanced at the bones of Tim Murphy and saw Booth. Saw the damage to his bones, his markers. Saw new damage from the explosions in her imagination. Saw him dying on the floor of a tacky bar with a piano player and people seeking the attention of others. Saw him dying on her kitchen floor as _their song_ played in the background.

"Get control," she muttered to herself.

It used to be so easy to do just that. But Booth had somehow disrupted the structure of her thoughts.

This was all his fault. He was the one who had pursued her, had detained her under false pretenses via Homeland Security just to get to her. He was the one who'd pulled her into the field and away from her academic pursuits. He had told her of his mental accounting of lives taken, of how he wanted to somehow atone for each and every one. And what was he doing now? He was heading into a war zone, where he would kill again, no matter what claims he made of training exercises.

Booth was a hero, a warrior. He would never remain on the sidelines.

_He's going to kill again, and it will be my fault_, she suddenly concluded. She was the reason he sought space; ergo, she was the reason he would be in situations where the taking of lives would be necessary. What good had they done by solving these crimes, only to unbalance things further? What did it say about her that she'd placed him in harm's way multiple times now, with Afghanistan only the latest instance?

Booth was right: this would change things, whether she wanted said change or not.

* * *

He'd left the day after they closed the Murphy case, with only a phone call in explanation. She hadn't warranted a goodbye, it seemed. Not a real one. Quietly, she'd packed up her office and put her affairs in order, providing Cam with a folder containing documents that would ensure a smooth transition for the next anthropologist. Her colleague had smiled and nodded, then asked when her flight left for Indonesia.

Three days. It was the right amount of time to put her affairs in order, arrange for her apartment to remain hers, and locate her father and brother to wish them well. It was also long enough, she learned, for Hodgins and Angela to decide to take a year off in Paris. She certainly couldn't fault their reasoning: acclimating the interns to the lab had been exhausting and tedious. To do so with an undoubtedly inferior FBI Agent and anthropologist would be much worse.

The insistence of Dr. Saroyan, Dr. Hodgins, Angela and Sweets on accompanying her and Daisy to the airport had only served to emphasize Booth's absence. Of all the people she would have once thought certain to see her off before such an important trip, Booth would have topped the list. Instead, she was left with a brief note indicating the address to which she could address correspondence and a number for potential phone contact. She'd jammed the paper deep into a suitcase pocket, frustrated and saddened. It was the final period in a work of prose.

Goodbyes exchanged, Brennan reached for her suitcase as Daisy again stressed the need to head for their gate. Normally, the thought of travel excited her; she was usually first to her gate, impatient for departure. Today, she hesitated. It all felt so very wrong. Perhaps Angela's confession – that she had called Booth herself and told him about her flight time – was the root of it. After all, if Booth had told her of a planned departure, she would be there to see him off. There was no alternate course of action.

She was, as always, alone.

And then, she felt it: _him_. Her eyes scanned the airport and connected with the uniform first, then the man in it. Her hand closed around the suitcase handle as she walked briskly towards him, ignoring the fact that her flight departed in thirty minutes. _Booth came_. She suddenly felt foolish to have ever doubted him.

"Hi," he began. "Sorry, couldn't get a pass. Had to sneak off the base to come say goodbye."

Words failed her as she shifted on her feet, resisting the urge to grab him, to hang on and plead with him not to go to war. She'd dreamed of him the night before, of having to identify his mangled corpse. She'd had to tell Parker that his father was gone, and it was with a sob she woke up then, her hand pressed to her chest.

"Listen Bones, you gotta be really careful in that Indonesian jungle, okay?"

The protector, as always. His worry buoyed her heart slightly. _Maybe not everything will change_. Her nightmares, however, were fresh in her mind, and seeing Booth in uniform only made them more real.

"Booth, in a week you're going to a war zone," she replied, finding her voice. "Please don't be a hero."

He nodded slightly, but it wasn't enough. He didn't understand that even as he stood before her, she could smell blood and hear cries of panic reverberating. Could hear herself pleading with him to fight, to stay with her, to make it through.

"Please," she repeated, willing herself not to cry. "Just… don't be you."

He stepped forward, and for a moment, she thought he might hold her. Instead, his hand seized hers and already, she knew they'd changed.

"One year from today," he said, "we meet at the Reflecting Pool on the Mall. Right by the—"

"Coffee cart," she finished, smiling slightly at the predictability of his choice. "I know. One year from today."

Her hand gripped his tighter, as if one single gesture could somehow convey the depth of her feelings and compel him to honour her plea. His eyes averted, he pulled his hand free and spun round, walking away from her.

_Everybody leaves me, Booth_, she thought. _I told you so_.

She turned from him, dragging her suitcase along behind her. She was seated beside Daisy for this flight; there would be no opportunity to break down. She would simply have to compartmentalize this in the five minutes it would take her to reach the gate. At least her friends had departed, sending the intern ahead. She had a few moments.

_One last look_. It was irrational to need to stare at a retreating figure, but she found herself doing so anyway, only to find Booth's eyes locked on hers. It was suddenly difficult to breathe and her eyes grew misty with tears she did not want to shed.

_Come back alive, Booth. Please_.

Again, he turned from her and she followed suit, finally allowing a solitary tear to slide down her cheek. "_Things have to change_," he'd said. Maybe her heart could be one of them.


	18. The Truth In The Tattoo

**_Long time, no write! In my defense, I'm busy with a full-time job, part-time blogging, editing a novel and volunteer work. I sleep deprived myself for work Sunday night (yes, I wrote this before 8X02, which is kinda funny, as you'll see... I didn't watch any promos either). Show me the love please!_  
**

**TITLE: ****The Truth In The Tattoo  
****TAG TO: ****8X01; slight spoilers for 8X02; ties in with The Brand On The Bullish Agent**  
**PROMPT: ****For Philly cheese dude: "How did Booth get that mustang? Remember in the season 7 finale when Booth went to get the car, he walked towards a 67 mustang. Anyway you can come up with a small story for that?" Also, for those who have asked for Billy Gibbons and/or more about the tattoo Wendell discovered... Here you go!**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

The first thing Booth realizes is that his ass hurts. If he didn't know better – and given the fog in his mind, he's honestly not sure if he _does_ know better – he'd blame it on an overzealous workout of the sort he'd indulged in while Bones and Christine were gone. But they're not gone: he faintly hears Christine gurgle and coo over the baby monitor, followed by a proud "Da! Da!" Beyond the bedroom door, he hears another one open, followed by delicate padding feet and the voice that stops his heart in wonderful ways.

"Good morning, Christine!" Bones whispers. "Da happens to be rather indisposed this Sunday morning. Shall we go sample the berry puree Angela made you?"

Booth smiles as his daughter clangs a toy against her crib and cheerily calls his name, momentarily distracted from the pain in his posterior. He does feel "indisposed" and is grateful his partner is up and tending to their child. Rolling onto his back, he yelps and immediately returns to his side, rubbing anxiously at his right butt cheek.

"What the hell?" he grumbles. _Had he_ worked out yesterday? _No, it was Saturday. I don't go into the gym on Saturday_. _Not anymore. Not since Bones came home_.

And then, he remembers the beginning of Saturday and is immediately terrified. Throwing back the covers, he storms into the bathroom, only half-hearing Christine babbling downstairs. Yanking down his boxers, he wrenches his neck to examine his rear in the mirror and groans.

"Billy. Fucking. Gibbons."

The large gauze pad with the seeping remnants of blood taped to his right cheek says it all. Well that, and the fact that he knows Billy's M.O. He's been tattooed and he isn't sure he cares to know what's been branded into his skin.

Relieving his bursting bladder first – which reminds him of the copious amounts of alcohol consumed the night before – he returns to the bedroom, shuts the door and dials a certain ento-whatever-he's-called and prepares to tear him apart.

"Booth!" Hodgins answers nervously. "How are you feeling?"

"How am I feeling? Well, your father-in-law violated my ass with a permanent marking I have yet to see and it's all _your fault_. I suggest you start finding a way to talk me out of using your house as a firing range!" Booth hisses.

"Dude, slow down! How much do you remember about last night?"

"Aside from the booze and Billy, nothing."

Hodgins groans. "Look man, I tried to stop him, but he was furious with you. As in, 'dumped me in the desert with a tattoo of Angela' furious. Speaking of, blame her if you wanna go after someone. She's the one who told him about the fight."

Booth sighs, fighting the urge to bang his head off the wall. "Crap!"

"Mr. Gibbons is, shall we say, a believer in love conquering all. He also hates seeing Angie cry," Hodgins continues.

"Hodgins, you know what it did to me to be left behind those three months," Booth protests. "You know how it hurt me."

"I do, and believe me, that's what kept you from a Texan ass-whooping. But even you admitted last night that you were out of line."

Booth grimaces. He's not wrong: his harsh words to Bones had gone above and beyond understandable anger and hurt over her running off with their kid. The first two days had been wonderful – a honeymoon period, one filled with sexual desire as a means of drowning out the nagging bitterness. Her repeated apologies had only fanned the flames until he'd exploded over the stupid case with the stupid divorce. Even as they'd tried to resolve the lingering anger between them, he'd irrationally lost his cool again over her leaving work early to take Christine to the park with her father and not calling him.

"_I'm sorry for leaving you, Booth. But this is never going to work if you don't trust me!"_

"_And how do I trust you, Bones? You betrayed my trust, remember?"_

"_We've been over this—"_

"_Yeah? Well, we go over a lot of things many, many times to allow you to 'adapt'. It's my damn turn!"_

Booth winces as he remembers her silence, sees the single tear slide down her cheek as she snatches her cell phone and purse up and storms out, leaving Christine and Booth behind. Angela had called an hour later to mutter a few expletives and advise that Bones was staying with her for the night. His apologies had been accepted, but the guilt... He still feels it. He still regrets throwing her insecurities in her face.

"Hodgins? What happened?"

"First, you have to understand that the night Dr. B. came over, Billy was here visiting Michael. He saw her crying, saw Ange crying with her. She was devastated, man. I know you two patched it up, but Billy felt you needed the advice of a man who'd seen his own version of war, as he put it. He ordered me to call you up last night and we all met at Founding Fathers. Many drinks were consumed. Billy lectured you on love, on how rare true love is and how cruel it is to turn confessions into weapons when angry. You seemed to agree. We ended up drinking Texas moonshine at this dive hotel and the rest is fuzzy even for me. That shit is crazy!" Hodgins whistles low. "When I woke up this morning, he'd called to ask if, and I quote, 'that horse's ass understands why he's been branded'. I've been dreading your call for an hour."

Booth nods, rubbing the stinging flesh beneath the bandage. "So you have no idea what's on my ass?"

"Not a goddamn clue, nor do I care to see it. I'm guessing it's something for Dr. B."

"Guess I better tear off this damn bandage," Booth grumbles. He adds, "I love Bones. You guys know that, right?"

"I know. I think I convinced Angela to remember that. But does _she_ know?"

"God, I hope so!" The sound of footsteps startles him. "Gotta go."

He doesn't wait for Hodgins to reply, ending the call and tossing the cell on the dresser as Bones opens the door. Christine is nestled on her hip, her shirt stained with a berry splash. Her hands reach out towards him.

"Da!"

He smiles. He'll never tire of hearing her say that, just as he can't help but grin when Parker calls him 'Dad'.

"I thought I heard you," Bones says quietly. "There's breakfast downstairs if your hangover isn't hindering your ability to consume it. I know you like to cook it, but I was hungry and tending to myself and found I was... not as hungry as I thought." She edges backwards, as if afraid of him, and he curses himself quietly. "I was just about to bathe her."

"I'll do it," he offers. "I know you need to work on your book."

She nods, her expression that blank mask she's always worn when unsure. He's the one who put it there again and it makes his stomach turn. Taking Christine, he supports her with one arm, his free hand reaching out to cup his partner's cheek.

"Hey... I love you, Bones. I want us to be okay."

She's fighting tears back now, her facade beginning to crumble. "Me too," she mumbles, pulling away and fleeing the room.

"Mmmmmm-ma!" Christine calls out.

"That's Mom," Booth echoes sadly. "I love you both, very much."

Suddenly, the pain in his rear is nothing compared to the pain in his heart.

* * *

He tucks Christine into her crib for her morning nap after her bath, inhaling the pleasant scent of baby shampoo as he kisses her goodnight. _No more stalling_, he thinks as he closes the door. _Time to see the damage done_.

"I'm grabbing a shower, Bones!" he calls downstairs.

"Okay." A neutral reply.

Peeling off his t-shirt and boxers, he steels himself for whatever lies beneath the bandage. It's a rather large rectangular bandage, and he expects to be met with a corresponding image that likely will _not_ coordinate with his wrist tattoos. Counting to three, he rips the gauze free, cursing the light hairs yanked with it.

"Oh, hell!" he mutters.

A bone. _A femur_, he corrects himself, just as Bones would do. And speaking of Bones, her goddamn name is written inside it. As he stares at the scabbing tattoo, he remembers something Billy said about ink being a way of honouring what matters most. He understands the message, loud and clear.

He showers carefully, mindful of after-care and the need to keep the tattoo as dry as possible. He lightly rinses off the blood and goopy gel slathered on it and rubs baby lotion gently on the scab after drying off. Still wrapped in a towel, he heads for the bedroom, where Bones is standing quietly, her eyes averted.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

She shakes her head sadly. "I told him to stay out of it. I told him, Booth."

_She knows_. "How—"

"Angela. Hodgins told her and she called me."

He can see her eyes are swollen, knows she's been crying. He's feeling the urge to kick Billy Gibbons' ass for hurting her.

"This isn't your fault, Bones," he assures her.

"It is."

"Billy's nuts! You know what he's done to Hodgins!" Booth forces a smile, ignoring the painful way the towel rubs against the scab.

"If I hadn't left you... If I hadn't gone to Ethan in the first place..."

"It was the right choice," he insists, stepping towards her. "I shouldn't have said what I said, no matter how angry I was. You deserve better than that."

"How bad is it?" she asks, gesturing to the towel.

"Could be worse."

"I could have laser removal done for you," she says. "I'll pay for the best doctors possible."

"Bones, really, I got what I deserved."

"No," she whispers sadly. "You're a good man, Booth. You deserve everything good, for lack of a better description. You certainly didn't deserve to be tattooed against your will. Isn't it illegal to perform such services when a client is intoxicated?"

"Not in Texas," Booth replies. "Besides, Billy only updated my tattoos to reflect my life."

"I don't know what that means."

"Look, my wrists... These are the principles that guide my life. The things that matter to me. The things I need in my life to be the man I want to be." He reaches for her hand and holds it tightly. "I need you, Bones. I need my family. Billy just reminded me of that."

"Oh God, my face isn't on your body, is it?" Her eyes widen in fright. "Booth, tell me—"

"Take a look," he offers, dropping the towel.

She examines the tattoo silently for a long minute, one in which his body betrays him by signaling his physical interest in the woman behind him. _Not right now_! he quietly begs the growing problem.

"That's... My name is on your posterior," she notes quietly.

"My name for you. I'm yours," he declares lovingly.

"You are?"

He spins around, pulling her against him. "Of course I am. I couldn't stop loving you if I tried. Hell, I _did_ try, and failed miserably. Fate, remember?"

He waits for her to argue, waits for her ranting on the nonexistence of God and Fate. Instead, her lips crash into his and he meets her passion with equal force. Her clothing hits the ground in a frenzy of tangled limbs, heated breath and murmured devotionals. As he thrusts inside of her, she begins to cry and he finds that his eyes are murky with emotion as well.

_We're okay_. His mouth finds hers and hungrily claims it. _We're going to be okay_.

* * *

He awakens mid-afternoon, famished and confused. The bed is empty. The house is silent.

"Bones?" he calls out.

No reply. His heart begins to pound as he yanks on a pair of pants and throws open the bedroom door. Taped to Christine's bedroom door is a single sheet of yellow paper.

_Booth, please don't panic. You needed sleep to recover from the alcohol Mr. Gibbons convinced you to consume and I had an important errand to attend to. Angela has Christine for the afternoon; if you feel better, you can pick her up and bring her home. I love you. I, too, am yours (even if it sounds very primitive to state that as fact)._

He laughs at her final note, at how _Bones_ it is. Dressing properly, he decides to take advantage of the quiet and start dinner for her. He's going to make damn sure she knows that nothing will ever tear them apart. He's going to remind her of how loved she is.

The pasta sauce is simmering when he hears her car pull in. He turns it down as a second car pulls in behind hers. _What's going on_? Surely, she wouldn't want company tonight! Not after... well, everything. Opening the door, he forces himself to keep a straight face as his beautiful partner marches Billy Gibbons up the front walkway.

"It would seem that Mr. Gibbons has something to say to you," she announces firmly.

Booth is normally somewhat intimidated by the man, even if he's learned to hide fear from years of war. Today... he feels sorry for him. Because Billy Gibbons is very, very afraid of Temperance Brennan.

"I apologize for forcing you to be inked," he mutters.

"Accepted," Booth manages.

His partner jabs the guitar master in the ribs. "And?"

"And you can keep the Mustang."

Booth's eyes widen as he stares at the '67 Mustang at the bottom of the driveway. When he'd been forced on leave from the Bureau and turned in the Sequoia, they'd been left without a vehicle. The Prius was impounded. Hodgins had lent them the Mustang, insisting his father-in-law had encouraged him to use it. Apparently, Angela's father shared Hodgins' taste for collecting cars. Giving it back had been almost painful; it drove like a dream.

"Mr. Gibbons—"

"Say thank you, Booth," Bones orders him.

"Thank you."

"I appreciate your making amends with the father of my child, Mr. Gibbons. I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, but I do ask that you consult me in the future before taking action against Booth."

"Yes, Temperance."

Billy Gibbons is a kitten in her clutches and he wishes he could take video of this moment for Hodgins. Instead, Booth accepts a key ring and watches as Angela now pulls up to the curb, presumably to collect her father.

"Hello, Agent Studly!' Angela calls out affectionately. _Smoothing things over_, he understands.

"Hey Ange!"

She unbuckles Christine from the backseat and hands her to her best friend. "Your child for my child of a father?"

"A fair trade," Bones quips.

Billy opens the passenger door of Angela's car, hesitates, then makes his final stand.

"I stand by calling you a horse's ass!" he shouts, slamming the door before he can be rebuked.

"I can't argue," Booth tells Angela.

Angela smiles. "Good answer. See you tomorrow, Bren."

The trio watches as the car pulls off, Booth's arm wrapping around the shoulders of the woman he loves. Christine jams the soft ear of her elephant into her mouth, gumming it happily.

"You didn't have to do that, Bones."

"Yes, I did. I can take care of my own life. My father was forbidden to break your nose; Mr. Gibbons shouldn't have used Hodgins to get to you."

"Max threatened me?"

She looks over at him. "Oh, yes. I believe that he, too, called you a horse's ass. I assume it's a colloquialism, as you look nothing like the posterior of a horse."

"Thanks, Bones."

"You're incredibly handsome," she continues. "I'm beautiful. I wouldn't date someone whose face resembled a sphincter with a tail."

"Bones? Too literal."

She laughs. "I'm well aware. Do you like your car?"

"I love my car. But you really didn't have to do that."

"It was as much for myself as for you, Booth. We're partners. What's ours is between us, right?"

His lips find the top of her head, kissing gently as she leans into his chest. "Definitely."

"Good. Because I plan to drive that car after dinner."

She's inside the house before he fully takes in her comment. He doesn't know whether to applaud her devilish set-up or protest.

"Bones! Get back here!"

* * *

_**Leave me some love! How are we enjoying season 8? Aside from the IMO BS way the first episode ended, I am loving it. **_


	19. The Promise On The Pillow

**_In a quick burst before bed last night, this little missing moment tumbled out. The premise: what if Brennan's easy agreement to staying at Booth's house in The Hole In The Heart wasn't just because of his look of "Don't argue with the man who loves you" that made me happy? What if it was just the next step?_  
**

**TITLE: ****The Promise On The Pillow  
****TAG TO: ****The Blackout In The Blizzard**  
**PROMPT: ****A "what happened next?" for The Blackout In The Blizzard... **  
**RATING: T  
**

* * *

He's not sure when it happened, precisely – the power was restored but the wine was only half-finished, and then he'd remembered that _The Mummy _was on TV and that had held her captive – but regardless of when it happened, he now found himself trapped. Specifically, he was trapped on his couch, with Bones sprawled across his lap, unconscious.

His eyes wandered to the candle on the table and the ashes of paper burned hours prior. _The spell_. His magic ritual that had, for as long as he remembered, never failed him. She didn't believe in magic or fate or God, but she had readily agreed to his proposition. Why? This was what puzzled him now, between the ethers of wine and weariness at three in the morning. She easily could have told him to do his wish burning solo, could have protested and carried on about the scientific impossibility of the causal relationship between burning a paper and yielding results. Instead, she'd gamely written something down and burned it as directed, teasing him when his went a little pyrotechnical. He'd remembered the wine and she'd insisted he open it and here he was now.

His body went rigid as she stirred, murmuring and rolling onto her back. Her hair tumbled across her left cheek and her messy beauty made his heart stop. Who was he kidding when he'd told her he would move on? How could anyone move on from someone who enthralled, enraged, enlightened and enchanted all at once? He'd told her he was angry, and while that was true, he'd come to understand the truth beneath the superficial self-pity parade of women rejecting him. He was angry with himself: for settling with Hannah; for falling back into things with Cam because it was easy; for proposing to Rebecca even, because he'd always known she would say no. Most of all, he was angry for giving up on the one person he'd ever entrusted with himself – the good and the very bad – and then turned around and gave her a bitter ultimatum after breaking up with his "not a consolation prize" girlfriend who had been precisely that.

That guilty rage had held him back from pursuing Bones, because she deserved better than that burden. For all of her flaws, and he could clearly see that they were both imperfect, she was a pure-hearted woman. She loved plainly and completely, even though that vulnerability terrified her. She loved _him_ completely. He knew it. His wish had been a final push to release the remaining guilt and move forward with a woman who'd been waiting patiently for him.

His fingers twitched, longing to tangle themselves in her hair, but he couldn't allow it. Couldn't overstep boundaries. Couldn't confuse her with such a gesture, only to recoil when the self-flagellation began anew. He couldn't wake her, either. His back was going to be hell in the morning if he remained sitting all night.

It was never easy for the two of them.

"Bones?" he whispered.

No response. _Crap._

"Bones?" he repeated, just a little louder.

"Hmmph."

She rolled again, burrowing her face into his stomach. Her fingers clutched at his shirt and it occurred to him suddenly that for years, she'd told him that she'd never let any of her sexual conquests sleep over. Cuddling confused matters. Yet here she was: Dr. Temperance Brennan, apparently the expert cuddler.

If only she was lying beside him, instead.

A sharp pain radiated through his lower back and he hissed, willing it away so he could let her rest longer. It was apparently the wake-up call her brain responded to.

"Booth?" Her head shot up, studying his pained expression. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he lied, forcing a grin.

"You're clearly in pain," she countered, sitting up beside him. "Have you been sleeping in this position? That's incredibly stressful on your lower back!"

_Stupid goddamn back!_ It had ruined everything.

"It's alright. You were comfortable."

"I don't remember falling asleep...and don't change the subject. You should have woken me. It was inappropriate of me to fall asleep on you."

His heart sank a little at the _inappropriate_. Was she not as interested as he was in pursuing a relationship down the line?

"I really didn't mind, Bones," he mumbled.

At this, she flushed slightly, and his heart switched to a frantic beat. "Still, I hurt you," she mused. "I should be home, letting you rest. I'll call a cab—"

"No!" he blurted out, surprised at his own reaction. "I mean, it's late and I'm in no shape to drive you home. I don't trust cabs."

"Booth –"

"Broadsky is still out there somewhere," he cautioned. "I'd really feel better if you just stayed. Until morning. Besides, what if my back goes right out again and I fall on my ass and crack my head?"

He was being manipulative now, and somehow, he didn't feel bad about it. He somehow sensed this was an important stepping stone towards a future he wanted more than anything. She considered his words, eyelids dropping as the wine still held sway over her.

"Fine, but you have to go lie down in bed. I'll just borrow a pillow for the couch."

"You're the guest, Bones. Take the bed; I prefer the couch."

"No way. Either you take the bed or I go home."

She crossed her arms, staring him down. She was going to win this time.

"Alright. Help me up?"

She easily pulled him to his feet, pressing her hand against his back in a way that made the pain immediately halve in its intensity. Swiping a pillow from his bed with a cheeky grin, she tugged his covers up to his chin.

"Goodnight, Booth."

"Night, Bones."

As he listened to her settling in the living room, the couch creaking slightly as she shifted and turned, Booth realized that he'd never felt jealous of a pillow until now. _At least she stayed_, he told himself. It was a huge step for a woman who avoided spending the night with men.

_But next time, she shares the bed with me_, he promised himself, closing his eyes with a hopeful smile.

* * *

_**A new chapter of my latest multi, The Bard In The Bodycount, should be arriving either Monday or Tuesday at the latest. Hopefully this tidbit ties you over! If you have a prompt - a continuation/rewind of a past one-shot, a "what happened next?" or "what if?" or even a "reverse POV" of an episode moment, throw it at me. I can't always promise the Muse will cooperate, but I do try!**_

_**Coming soon: in answer to a few people's requests, Billy Gibbons finally gets a taste of his own Texan medicine. In the meantime, set your alerts for The Bard!  
**_


	20. Revenge, Texas Style!

_**AN: Long time, no see one-shot fans! In my defense, I was publishing a book, working three other jobs and posting a multi fic (which is well underway, so if you're not reading The Bard In The Bodycount, now's a great time to start!).**_

_**So... Billy Gibbons. He can be pretty naughty, can't he? In my little universe here, he's been extra naughty (although Brennan does a great job sorting him out). Several people, FaithInBones being one, have insisted Billy should get a taste of his own Texas moonshine, so to speak. I deliver.  
**_

_**Disclaimer: I disclaim!  
**_

* * *

**TITLE: Revenge, Texas Style!**  
**TAG TO: Post 8X1; ties in with The Brand On The Bullish Agent and The Truth In The Tattoo**  
**PROMPT: "Hodgins and now Booth have had enough of Billy Gibbons' antics. Angela has a plan..."**  
**RATING: A strong T/Bordering on M briefly...  
**

* * *

"Are we sure about this?"

Of course it was Hodgins looking for a way out. Booth should have expected as much. _He does have the most to fear_, he reminded himself. Before he could reply, Angela stepped in.

"This is long overdue, Jack. A little Texas justice, so to speak."

"Angie, he loves you. He'll probably kill the rest of us."

"That's not true," Brennan interjected. I'm fairly certain that Mister Gibbons is petrified of me now."

"And, by proxy, he's afraid of me," Booth added with a smirk.

"So you're going to have your fun and make me the sacrificial lamb? No thank you!"

Hodgins pushed away from the table and headed for the cooler loaded with beer, ignoring Angela's calls to return. This wouldn't work without Hodgins on deck. _Convince him, Booth. Think fast_.

"C'mon Hodgins! If anything, Billy will admire you for standing up to him."

"Like the grand theft auto caper!" Angela enthused.

"Exactly." For the first time ever, Booth was wishing his so-called charm smile worked on men. "Can't do it without you, buddy!"

Downing half of his beer, Hodgins stomped back towards the table. "Fine. But if he gets pissed, I'm telling him you had me at gunpoint and Angela was being held hostage and a million other reasons why I let it go down. I may possibly insist you shoot me in the leg to emphasize my innocence."

Ever helpful, Brennan added, "I could calculate the best angle for shooting him while minimizing lasting damage."

Booth chuckled. "I got it, Bones. Now, let's go over this one last time..."

* * *

"There's my future rock star!"

Billy's voice boomed through the house, sending a shiver up Jack's spine. _Crap. Here we go_. Adjusting his belt needlessly, he drew a deep breath to steady himself. How had he been talked into this again? Oh, right: Angie had woken him with morning fellatio before announcing that she and Dr. B had a _wonderful _revenge idea for his crazy father-in-law's ink-happy ways. He'd said yes before blood flow was restored to the wiser of his heads and now, he was screwed by peer pressure! Him! Jack Hodgins, free thinker!

_I'm whipped. I'm so whipped_.

If whipping was the worst repercussion doled out by one Billy Gibbons, he'd consider himself lucky.

"Jack! Dad and I need to get going!"

And there was his cue. Heading downstairs, he smiled at his wife and held that genuine loving expression for his father-in-law. "Good to see you again!"

Michael tugged happily on his grandfather's beard as the guitar guru smiled. "He's feisty! Gonna need an equally fierce ax to shred. I'm thinking something custom. Randy Parsons."

"Isn't he that guy who puts animal bones inside for bracing and as frets?" Angela asked.

"Exactly. Might kill the animal myself for a personal touch."

Hodgins and Angela exchanged a look. Her father was a music legend, but his tastes veered frequently into "what the fuck?" territory.

"I'm sure he'd love that," Jack lied, knowing full well that Michael loved anything he could throw or gnaw on, regardless of material.

"Pa! Pa!" Michael happily shouted, tugging harder on Billy's beard.

"Smart young man. But I have to give you to your Daddy. I owe your Mama a night on the town for her birthday."

Angela took Michael from her father, gently nudging his tiny fists open. Without hesitation, he clamped onto Angela's long curls with one hand, blowing her a kiss with the other.

"You be a good boy for Daddy, Michael."

A shower of kisses and an expert tickle to release her tresses later, Michael was safely in Jack's arms. He clung to his son, wondering if this would be the last time he saw him before Billy buried him. Angela kissed him chastely, mindful of her father's presence.

"See you later," she murmured.

"Make it sunrise," Billy corrected. "We haven't had a night out in a long time."

"Good call, Dad. I don't know if Bren will make it the whole night, though."

"Nonsense! She needs to let her hair down more often. Remember that time we got her drunk after you made that crime job of yours permanent and took her to Vegas for a night?"

Hodgins raised an eyebrow. _Why haven't I heard this story before?_

"Barely, and Bren remembers none of it, including the strippers, so please don't remind her," Angela pleaded.

"Strippers?" Jack asked.

"Female. Her request," Billy whispered with a grin.

"Really!"

"Jack, shut up. Dad, let's go!"

"But... strippers!"

Angela planted a firm kiss on him to silence him and he took that as a cue to give up. For now. Waving to their departing limo, Jack sauntered back into the house and called Booth.

"Phase one has begun," he told him.

Booth chuckled. "Good. Bones will signal us for phase two."

"Michelle?"

"Got here five minutes ago and we're on our way over to you now with Christine."

"Alright. You brought your gun, right?"

"Hodgins – "

"No gun, no bug guy."

He heard Booth laugh. "I'm not an idiot. Of course I brought my gun. Now go grab a beer and your balls and wait for me."

Hodgins hung up and scowled. Self-preservation was wise, not cowardly. If this went south, he was hanging Booth out to dry. Then they'd see who still had balls by the end of the night.

* * *

"Strippers?" Booth asked.

"Yes, strippers. Female. In Vegas."

"Whoa!"

"I know, right? Angie totally owes me this story!" Hodgins exclaimed.

"She owes _me _this story!" Booth agreed, signaling for his turn. "But she doesn't remember it?"

"That's what Ange said."

Booth shook his head. "Nah, Hodgins. Ange likes to think she holds her booze, but Bones can _definitely _hold her liquor. She's lying about not remembering it."

"Maybe Dr. B. didn't have the same tolerance back then?"

"No, she did. Trust me."

Hodgins shook his head. "My wife is a lying harlot... and it is _so hot_."

Booth grinned. "Well, would you look at where our women ended up?"

They'd arrived at the address Brennan had texted them and were highly amused to find it was a strip club. Female strippers. _That cheeky, lying, beautiful woman of mine_... Booth pulled around back, as directed, and found an anxious Angela and Brennan beside a slurring, slumped over Billy Gibbons.

"How is he conscious?" Hodgins asked. "That's the strongest lab brew I've ever made!"

"Texan," Booth replied simply. "Besides, isn't it better for phase three if he's at least semi-conscious?"

"Good point."

Parking the SUV, Booth stepped out with a cocky smirk. "Well well, look where you are!"

Angela glared at Hodgins. "You told him."

"Told him what?" Brennan asked.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," Hodgins insisted.

"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, son-in-law! You come to party? Deese girls, they ain't the partiers they used to be."

Booth stifled a chuckle at the teetering man Angela was struggling to keep upright. "I know. Must be something in the hormone cocktail of pregnancy."

"Hey!" Angela protested.

"I could go several more rounds," Brennan began, quickly halting as Booth made a throat-cutting gesture. "But Booth and Hodgins insisted I care for Angela," she recovered nicely.

"Well ladies, we'll take it from here," Booth said. "Let the limo drop you at home and we'll keep this party going, won't we Hodgins?"

"Absolutely!" Tugging Angela over to him, he whispered, "If I never see you again, remember how much I love you."

"You remember your big blabbermouth when you come home looking for a place to hide," she grumbled before kissing his cheek.

With Booth's assistance, they load the Texan into the backseat, where Brennan hands him a flask.

"Don't forget your present, Mr. Gibbons!" she cheerily reminds him.

"Billy, Temperance. Yer like... the other kid I didn't have." With a goofy grin, he fumbled with the flask.

"Thank you, Billy. Drive safe, Booth."

The women disappeared into the waiting limo and Hodgins swallowed hard at the lump forming in his throat. It was time for payback. _Well, a few drinks and then payback_.

"Hurry up! The night's young!" Billy shouted from behind him.

"You heard the man," Booth said. "Let's do this."

* * *

_The next morning..._

A headache. From drinking. Billy didn't understand it. He was immune to the wicked side of alcohol, having built decades of tolerance. His left eye squinted open and he immediately cursed, clamping a hand over his eyes. _And how the hell was I stupid enough to leave the curtains open?_

It then occurred to him that he didn't recognize the curtains as his, nor Angela's, nor the Washington Court Hotel. This place was more of a dive, what with the nasty brown shade of the curtains, meant to hide the grime. His eye squinted open again to his left and settled on the flask Angie's friend gave him. The one filled with "D.C. Moonshine", as she'd called it.

He's been had.

Billy felt his way around the room, stumbling blindly towards the shitstain-coloured curtains. He closed them with a vicious yank, his eyes relaxing and assessing his accommodations. Yep. No-Tell Motel. Obviously, there's something that people don't want told to him. People who poisoned him with booze from hell.

"Goddamn scientists," he muttered.

A shower. That's what he needed to loose the knots all over his body. Rolling his shoulders back, he cranked the crappy shower up to scalding and stripped out of his clothes. He'd set himself right with a shower and then call his daughter and ask what the hell happened.

The water pressure was decent for a crappy dive and Billy thrust his head beneath the spray, rolling his neck to loosen it. Maybe he'd ditched the ladies and kept partying. Did he lose the limo in poker again? That would be a pain in the ass. Reaching down for the tiny wrapped soap on the side of the tub, Billy felt something slide down his back and hit the tub with a wet _plop_.

"What the hell?"

Glancing down, the white gauze stained in blood made his aching back understandable. It also made his blood boil. He stepped out of the shower in a huff, the water still cascading down, as he swept his hand across the foggy mirror and turned his back towards it. With a little craning of his neck, he caught sight of the offender: a strange hexagonal figure with some weird man inside it.

"Son of a bitch!"

This was revenge! Calculated, dirty, Texas-style revenge! And he knew exactly who was to blame for it. The question now was how to respond.

But first, the shower. Stepping back inside, Billy kept his back away from the direct spray. Why destroy the art, after all? It would serve a useful testament to the audacity of his son-in-law and his science buddies. A memorial. _In memoriam_. Billy liked the sound of that.

* * *

"Hodgins again?" Booth asked.

Brennan nodded, letting her cell phone ring. "That's three calls. Two from Angela. One from an unknown number that I assume is Mr. Gibbons."

"Should we be worried?"

She shook her head. "I assume he will chase Hodgins with a shotgun for show and Angela will successfully manipulate him with their familial bond into not murdering her husband. Billy knows you are an expert marksman and that I, too, am licenced."

"So we can continue to hide in bed all day?"

She grinned. "I was thinking we could do more than hide."

As she kissed her way down his body, Booth couldn't resist asking any longer. It was probably the surge of testosterone as she began to handle a growing problem.

"How come you never told me about the Vegas stripper adventure with Angela and Billy?"

She slid back up his body, smirking. "What Vegas adventure?" she asked coyly.

"I _knew_ you remembered it!" Booth crowed triumphantly. "Angela told Jack you were too wasted."

"Hardly. Angela, on the other hand, cannot hold her 'woo woo', as she puts it, nearly as well." Licking her lips, she added, "You really didn't think I was that oblivious to what my $60 was for on that case years ago, did you?"

Booth gasped. "You bought me a lap dance on purpose?" She ignored him, shimmying her way back down his body and he fought his more primal needs off, struggling to speak. "You bought me a lap dance. On purpose," he repeated.

"She did have excellent control of her hips," was her only explanation.

And then, she gave him another reason to gasp, and the conversation was dropped... for a few hours, anyway.

* * *

_**Randy Parsons is indeed a renowned American luthier (that's fancyspeak for guitar-making god)... And his unique use of animal bones and other materials seems like it would be right up Billy's alley.**_

_**I have no idea where the stripper story came from, but once it started, I had to tie in to The Bones That Foam, because that episode was amazing.  
**_

_**Stay tuned for more, check out The Bard In The Bodycount and follow me as an author, because I have a fluffier multi posting next week! Also keep sending me prompts. I can't promise to do all of them, but I do try!  
**_


	21. One Millimeter

_**AN: Long time... I know. I survived planning and DIYing a hella ton of stuff for my wedding and am now a married chica! Huzzah!  
**_

_**I was catching up slowwwwwwly on weeks of fic and suddenly was struck with this what if concept I had to write. I'm mulling a continuation of this one-shot. You'll let me know if that's a good idea, won't you?**_

_**Disclaimer: I disclaim!  
**_

* * *

**TITLE: One Millimeter**  
**TAG TO: The Hole In The Heart**  
**PROMPT: What if Vincent survived Broadsky's shot?**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

One millimeter.

Cam had said it softly, whispered, like the prayers he'd spoken while the surgeons went to work. One millimeter closer and his left atrium wouldn't have been lightly grazed; it would have been pierced entirely. Vincent wasn't out of danger yet – the doctors had given him a 20% chance of survival – but it was better than no chance at all.

One millimeter. One millimeter that shouldn't have to matter right now. Because that bullet belonged to _him_. It had been meant for him.

Booth splashed cool water against his face, allowing droplets to tumble and fall as he hunched over the sink. He was so young, so goddamn young, so trusting... So quietly troubled, as he'd confessed while making amends for actions committed during his alcoholism. So full of trivia that Booth had never cared to know and now prayed for time to hear, because it meant that he didn't have to bear the weight of another innocent life taken by his hands.

A quiet rapping on the door startled him, his hand instinctively reaching for his service weapon.

"Booth?"

"Bones?" His face still dripping, he threw open the door in a panic. "Bones, what's wrong?"

Her lips fell open, eyes wide, and it occurred to him that he was a hell of a sight. In her hand she held a large cup of the vending machine coffee he'd come to know too well over the years.

"I... I bought you coffee."

He reached just inside the closet masquerading as a bathroom, snatching a handful of paper towels and wiping his face. "Thanks, Bones. That's nice of you."

His hand brushed hers as he reached for the offered brew, electricity sparking between them. She startled slightly, her lower lip trembling.

"Did the doctors come back with an update?" he asked.

"No. Cam says that's normal... That it's a long procedure and if it is successful, it should keep the doctors occupied for several more hours."

Her words rang with logic and truth, but her voice shook almost in spite of herself. She was trying so hard to keep herself in check, drawing her walls tighter about her frame, but he knew her better than anyone on this earth. It was a house of cards and he feared that if he were to merely breathe too heavily, the fixed neutrality of her expression would tumble away.

_Don't let them see you hurt_. It was something his buddy Greg had said in college about his time in the foster system. He'd seldom mentioned those early days of bouncing between group homes, but the one time he'd opened up, he'd made it clear that it was the only way to survive. Booth had forgotten all about that conversation until that terrible goddamn night in Sweets' office, when she'd revealed her foster parents had locked her once in the trunk of a car.

If he really challenged himself to search his heart, he'd first become conscious of his already consuming love for Temperance Brennan that night, tossing sleepless in bed, haunted by Greg's words. It was a final piece of the puzzling enigma that was his partner.

Once upon a time, she'd let him see her hurt, had bestowed that trust upon him. But he'd ruined it, marred it with his mistakes.

"He'll be okay," he told her quietly, brushing aside a tangled strand of hair with his free hand. "He's a tough kid."

Her head shook slowly and she took a step backwards. "He wouldn't need to be tough, as you say, if he didn't work with me."

_Oh, hell_. As consumed as he'd been with his own grief and guilt, he'd failed to anticipate that just as he'd assumed responsibility for Teddy Parker, she would place blame upon herself for the welfare of her intern.

"Bones, listen – "

His hand reached for hers but she retreated rapidly down the hall. He began to give chase, desperate to sway her from her self-reproach, but she halted, firing one final shot of her own.

"You were gone a long time from the waiting room. I was worried."

Booth could do nothing but watch her flee, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. _But I gave him the phone, Bones. I gave him the phone_...

* * *

Critical condition. ICU.

The staff of the Jeffersonian kept weary vigil in a private waiting room, some sleeping but all refusing to head home. In unspoken agreement, they waited for Vincent to wake up or improve. Together, they were also safer from the barrel of Broadsky's gun – or so they believed.

After all, Booth had been with Vincent and look where it had gotten him?

If Booth wasn't terrified of what the man's next move was, he'd retreat from the hospital. Draw the line of fire as far from his partner as possible, far from their friends. Instead, Booth gulped another cup of lousy coffee and watched as stormy blue eyes gazed at the floor, scrutinizing the scuffed tiles with the intensity customarily reserved for bones and the consumption of cooked fruit.

Angela slept fitfully, strewn across a cot not meant to accommodate a very pregnant woman against Hodgins' wishes. The bug doctor's head rested upon her hand as he slept sitting on the floor beside her. Sweets stared blankly at the TV, watching a muted talk show of some kind with Daisy's head on his lap, snoring quietly. Cam had wandered off again, pacing the hallways no doubt, demanding answers about Vincent. Fisher was on a fast-food run with Clark and Wendell – McDonald's maybe. Booth didn't pay much attention, although he'd given them a limited time to achieve their goal of greasy food before expecting a check-in.

Bones rose to her feet abruptly, smoothing her blouse with her palms and heading for the door. Confused, he caught her by the arm, blocking her departure.

"Where are you going?"

"I need air."

"I'll come with you."

"No."

She yanked her arm free and made it just outside of the room before he caught her again, this time gripping both of her shoulders firmly. She winced at the contact, hissing angrily.

"I'm coming with you," he told her.

"Booth, I am an adult and perfectly capable of – "

"Broadsky's still out there," he interrupted.

"Booth – "

In his mind, he saw it: the bullet striking her chest, the force dropping her to her knees. One of many nightmarish images he'd grappled with in the last eight hours. Broadsky wasn't done with him. Broadsky had targeted the Jeffersonian. He would come for her; Booth was certain of it.

"Bones, I can't let you walk away from me right now," he whispered hoarsely. "I can't. _I won't_."

He felt her shoulders sink beneath his palms, watched her seemingly shrink. So vulnerable, yet strong. Flesh was weak, no matter how powerful the spirit within. His hand pressed instinctively to the small of her back and she moved forward, heading for the small courtyard down the east corridor. He matched her stride, adjusting his gait to keep her close.

The faint whirring and blips of machines drifted from behind ajar doors, signs of life in dim, jaundiced light. He hated hospitals. They reeked of death.

She elected to settle upon the bench closest to the doors and Booth wondered if she was instinctively selecting the safest position possible. Closest to cover, hidden from most rooftop vantage points: it was where he would have asked her to sit. He settled beside her, studying the darkness for signs of movement.

"I called Vincent's mother earlier."

Booth winced in empathy. "How is she?"

"She's flying out here as soon as possible. I purchased her ticket. She... I could barely understand her through her crying."

"It was kind to fly her out here, Bones. You have a big heart."

"She seemed grateful, but she shouldn't be." At this, Booth glanced over and noticed a single tear slide down her cheek. "Her son may die still. Because of me."

"It's not your fault," he insisted, reaching for her hand. "You didn't do anything wrong."

She shook her head in anger. "My position at the Jeffersonian – my work – placed him in a dangerous situation."

"But he chose to work with you as his supervisor – "

"He's hardly the first, Booth. Hodgins wouldn't still have nightmares about Taffet if I hadn't dragged him into crime-solving. Zack wouldn't be in the institution. And you... My reckless pursuit of the truth and insistence upon field work have compromised your safety repeatedly," she continued, the words tumbling out in rapid-fire succession. "I believe the metaphor is 'toxic'."

Booth knelt in front of her, his gaze fixed upon her. "You are _not_ toxic. It's not your fault that there are criminals out there. It's not your fault that there are fucked up people in this world who enjoy inflicting pain on others!"

Her hand reached out, pressing gently upon a scar he was acutely aware of each day, but particularly tonight. Pam Nunan. In his mind, he could see her hands pressed firmly against him, painful but necessary. She'd saved him then, physically. It wasn't the first time, nor was it the last. But emotionally, she'd been saving him for years.

"Booth..."

"I'm an FBI agent. I know what my job entails." His hand reached up to cover hers, marveling at the softness of her skin. "But more than that, I'm your partner. The only thing I regret about taking that bullet was not telling you myself that I'd survived."

It wasn't the time or place. It was wrong to think it now, as she sat before him, crying silently and pressing her hand harder against his shoulder. It was even worse to speak it, but he couldn't take another chance. Anger, hurt pride, fear – it was all so fucking stupid, but it had silenced him for months. No more.

"I would have died for you then," he confessed. "I still would. I'm not willing to live in a world without you, Temperance. Do you understand me?"

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his with a heavy sigh. "I do."

They remained that way for a long time, her hand pressed to his scar and his protectively laid atop hers. He was breathing her air, she his. It was the most intimate exchange between them and Booth fought the urge to break down and weep in her lap.

He loved her so damn much, always had. The wasted months weighed heavily upon him, suffocating and condemning him. Because he knew now, as her lips moved within a millimeter of his own for scant seconds before retreat, that she had always loved him back.

* * *

Vincent woke up twenty hours after surgery.

His mother had been beside him, weeping with joy as her son asked for Jaffa cakes, which were some sort of soft cookie, from what Bones had explained to Booth. She'd called a specialty store near her home and arranged for them to deliver the eight boxes in stock to the hospital.

His Bones and her big, loving heart. It knew no limits. She'd quietly arranged to be billed for Vincent's medical care as well.

He'd asked to speak with Bones after awakening, falling back into slumber within minutes. Five hours later, the intern was more alert and insisted, this time, upon speaking with Booth. This was how he'd come to find himself standing outside of his room, swallowing hard against the cottonmouth. How the hell could he atone for getting the kid shot? There weren't words for that. Sorry was five letters of inadequacy in a two-syllable pitiful package.

The kid was ashen but surprisingly affable as he entered, his mother glancing up briefly at the agent's arrival. Her hand smoothed over his hair lovingly as she rose to her feet.

"You don't have to leave, Mrs. Nigel-Murray."

"I need to stretch my legs," she insisted. "Vincent, I'll be right back."

"Take your time, Mum. Agent Booth will be here."

Booth struggled with whether to sit or stand, his feet aching yet his heart also full with regret. Compromising, he leaned against the wall, shifting his weight partially off his aching heels. He smiled at the stack of cookie boxes on the nearby table, gesturing to them with a nod.

"The one perk of being in a hospital: Bones will spoil you. How are you feeling, Vincent?"

"Sore," he replied hoarsely, shifting beneath the sheets. "But grateful. You saved my life, Agent Booth."

"Just Booth, and I didn't. If I hadn't handed you that phone – "

"Then I... imagine Dr. Brennan would be... very upset." Vincent coughed violently and Booth immediately reached for a nearby cup of water. Helping him drink, he remained at his side as he continued to talk. "You didn't know I'd be hurt."

"Still, I should have expected Broadsky to do something like that," Booth countered.

"You're... two of a kind, Booth," Vincent observed. "You and Dr. Brennan. None of us get it."

"Get what?"

"Why you don't just love each other already," the intern replied, rolling his eyes. "I may be young and rather full of bollocks, particularly when drunk, but I know what love looks like."

"It's... complicated."

_Wait, why am I having this conversation with an intern? With anyone at all, really?_ His disaster zone of a love life was not exactly high on his list of issues to chat about with recovering shooting victims today.

"Life's too short for complicated," Vincent mumbled. "I know that now... and so do you."

"Vincent, I'm here to make sure you're okay and apologize for endangering your life, not to go all Oprah," Booth protested, rising slowly.

"You want to make amends?"

Booth sighed sadly. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I wish I could, but – "

"Tell her you love her. Tell her and I'll consider you atoned. So will your God, I promise. I'll even pray to him to insist, if you oblige me," Vincent joked weakly.

"She knows I love her," Booth replied.

"Have you said it since Hannah?"

Booth groaned loudly. "God, did Sweets put you up to this?"

"I'm a scientist," Vincent said. "I observe. She talks to herself, sometimes. I watch her watch you leave. She thinks you can't forgive her for the Hoover."

"How do you know about the Hoover?" Booth demanded.

Vincent's eyes fluttered close, but he continued to speak, his words slow and measured. "I had a dream. This woman, she told me that there was a bad choice in front of the Hoover... that Dr. Brennan wanted... forgiveness for it. I asked her... and she wept. It was very _odd _to see it."

"Bones crying does have that effect on people..."

Was it possible that she believed that he didn't love her? They'd discussed the prospect of trying to have a relationship, hadn't they? Wasn't that clear? Hadn't he outright wished for it – told her he was making the wish to ensure they got their chance? He could see the paper burning now, feel the thin page turn to ash. Less than one millimeter separating them from fate, or so he'd believed.

_You qualified it, though_, he realized. _You said when you weren't angry anymore that you could try._

His own words haunted him, that bitter, scotch-soaked night months prior rewinding for him. He'd as much as told her that he was angry at _her_, at her rejection of him. Bones was a woman of rationality, of the overt. She said what she meant and expected the same of him. Vincent was right, damn him.

"I brought you some juice, Vincent."

Booth glanced up as the intern's mother slid back into the room, juggling several bottles of cranberry juice. He moved quickly to take half of them, setting them carefully beside the cookie boxes. She thanked Booth warmly, returning to the chair where she'd been keeping vigil.

"You look tired, honey," she gently chided her son.

"I want to see everyone... Just briefly. Then sleep."

"I'll go get them. The waiting room's a little ripe, just as a warning."

Vincent's mother chuckled. "I'm certain we'll manage, Agent Booth."

"Booth?"

He met the intern's stare with a slight nod. "I'll do it. Soon."

"Thank you," he murmured.

The waiting room emptied quickly, an army of squints filing down the corridor, eager to see their friend. Only Bones turned in the opposite direction, heading briskly towards the emergency department entrance.

"Hey!" Booth ran after her, blocking her path. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Home. I need to shower and change before returning to the lab," she replied calmly.

"Like hell you're going there!" Booth snapped. "Bones, it's dinner time. Sleep time. The case can wait until morning."

"Broadsky needs to be found," she insisted.

"And we'll find him, I promise you. But not tonight. You're going to rest and have a good meal first."

"Booth – "

"You're staying with me tonight."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was stated fact, with no room for contradiction, not even the scant space that separated their bodies now. Booth readied himself for an angry barrage of arguments against the idea, for indignant refusal of protection or perhaps her rebuking him for "alpha male behaviour". And while yes, her eyes flashed steely grey for a brief moment, it was a storm he never had to weather.

"Okay," she assented.

"Thank you," he whispered, pulling her into a tight embrace.

One millimeter. It was the reason Vincent was still here, opening his eyes to the truth. Booth had never been so grateful for so little.

* * *

_**Well... *nervous* whatcha think?  
**_

_**And yes, before I'm asked: I will be returning soon to all of my stories, promise! I'm looking to get ahead on Ring and Shuffle before I resume posting, just in case. In the meantime, please say hi and let me know what you think.**_


	22. Collateral Damage

_**AN: Thank you for the warm welcome back and the well wishes! I've missed writing and reading here. It's so good to stretch those mental muscles again.  
**_

_**While many of you were content with a one shot, several of you were interested in a continuation of **_**One Millimeter**_**. This one's a companion and continuation; we're going to rewind just a bit because this time, we're inside Brennan's head.**_

_**This chapter also contains a nod to one of my favourite stories. See if you catch it! Hint: it's a bit of unusual dialogue...**_

_**Also, warning: I'm a bit... sneaky...**_

_**Disclaimer: I disclaim!  
**_

* * *

**TITLE: Collateral Damage**  
**TAG TO: The Hole In The Heart**  
**PROMPT: What if Vincent survived Broadsky's shot? A companion to and continuation of ****_One Millimeter_****.**  
**RATING: T**

* * *

Collateral: noun and adjective. Adjective usage defined as "additional but subordinate; secondary".

Linguistics had been torturing Brennan for the last twenty-five hours, ever since her mind had begun searching through the recent months, studying Broadsky's crimes and taunts. The term struck her quickly, and she suspected that Booth's military history would bring it to the forefront of his own troubled thoughts.

Collateral damage: defined here as the life of a young intern hanging in the balance, for no crime aside from answering the phone of an intended target.

Across the room, Angela picked at an order of French fries from the hospital cafeteria, perhaps assuming that by moving the potato strips around the plate she might create the optical illusion of consumption. Hodgins was far too clever for that, but it appeared as though he was willing to believe her lie.

She'd learned a lot from Booth over the years. She could study people now, make the occasional astute inference as to what emotions were suppressed beneath awkward smiles and glares. It was how she knew Booth felt guilty for Vincent's grave condition. His shoulders were hunched forward, hands pressed together almost as if in supplication, although his watchful gaze traveling the room suggested he was on high alert.

Ever the protector. But the protector believed himself a failure, and his slumped posture betrayed that truth.

And what about herself? Logically, she could place clear blame on Broadsky. It was he whom had taken the shot that shattered the glass panels and struck her intern in the chest. It was his actions that had left the young man fighting for life in an ICU. But hadn't she dragged him into forensic anthropology, insistent upon that field being her only internship offering? Hadn't she encouraged him to answer Booth's phone and pretend to be the agent? Hadn't Broadsky targeted them because of her work?

Broadsky thought very little of collateral damage, but for Brennan, it was tantamount to her pulling the trigger. She'd endangered someone innocent. And while her life was her own to risk, Vincent's was a life worth preserving at all costs.

A creaking – a hinge in dire need of oil – alerted her to the opening of the waiting room door. The more patient of the surgeons, Dr. Brock, entered the room with a neutral expression. News.

"Vincent is awake," the doctor stated calmly. A chorus of relieved voices and murmurs were waved away quickly by a raised hand. "He's not out of danger yet, but it's a very good sign."

"That's very, very good," Cam echoed. "Can we see him?"

The doctor shook his head. "He needs his rest, and his mother is with him now. Dr. Brennan, he's asked to speak with you explicitly."

Puzzled, she rose to her feet and smoothed her rumpled blouse. "Then I shouldn't keep him waiting."

She sensed that the doctor had hoped that she, bearing the same professional prefix, would encourage Vincent to rest, but having nearly lost people dear to her before, she was reluctant to deny the request of a man who, by her best estimates, still faced a 65% chance of succumbing to the trauma sustained from the bullet.

She paused momentarily at the doorway of his small room within the ICU ward, biting the inside of her cheek to drive back the tears welling up within. He was incredibly ashen, the blood transfusions having done very little towards reducing pallor. His breathing was laboured, indicative of partial damage to the left lung, and she detected several faint contusions where his arms had struck the lab floor. But it was the frantic expression upon his mother's face that hurt most to behold, somehow, and she nearly retreated before Vincent caught sight of her.

"Dr... Brennan..."

Vincent's mother glanced up, running the sleeve of her sweater over her moistened cheeks. "Dr. Brennan. Thank you for offering to bring me here –"

"Of course," she interrupted quickly, edging inside. It seemed wrong to receive thanks for minor restitution.

"I'll give you a minute alone," his mother said, moving for the door.

"That isn't necessary – "

"He insists."

Vincent nodded weakly at his mother's words, his pupils fixed upon her departure. Unsure of what to do with herself, Brennan took the still-warm chair beside the bed and waited patiently. She had been summoned: it was not her place to speak.

"Dr. Brennan... thank you for... coming."

His words were hushed and pained, his left hand compacting into a fist about the flimsy sheet beneath it. Her hand reached out for his, gently layering upon it. It was a gesture that Booth often exchanged when she herself was pained, and it was soothing.

"I am so, so sorry Vincent," she began hoarsely.

"Broadsky... did it. But there's no time..."

Brennan felt her heart begin to race. "No time for what? Vincent, what's wrong?"

"Message... A dream. A question..." The young man's eyes swung to the side, locking upon hers. "Did you know... that the earliest writing of a near-death experience... is in Plato's _Republic_?"

She nodded quickly. "I recall that writing, although it's hardly scientific. Vincent, you're not going to die. The doctors are taking excellent care of you. I've threatened them several times already."

And she had. She'd nearly been ejected from the hospital, until Booth had intervened and pointed out precisely who the nurse was contemplating calling the police on... before flashing his badge and that grin of his. It worked, two-fold: both she and the nurse were subdued.

"The Hoover... you made a mistake," Vincent said.

"What?"

Vincent licked his parched lips, managing a slight nod. "The dream... You made a bad choice, she said. You have regrets."

A cool sensation traversed her spinal cord and she drew herself back into the chair, recoiling as if stung. She'd never spoken of that night to anyone, aside from Angela. Angela had sworn on her life that she would never reveal a single detail to another person, Hodgins included. Vincent couldn't possibly know of this!

"He forgives you. The dream lady... I don't understand the dream," Vincent mumbled.

In her mind, she could hear Booth's words, a personal Echoplex device of misery.

"_I mean, you like evidence. Alright, Bones, well, here's the evidence. The evidence is that there's something wrong here. Now, I – I fell in love with a woman. I had a kid. She doesn't want to marry me. And – the next woman, she's..."_

_"Me." _

_"Yeah! And now – I mean, what is it with women who don't want what I'm offering here?"  
_

"_Booth..."_

"_No. Just, you know what – drink. Drink. I'm just really – I'm just mad. I'm just really mad at all of you. I'm just mad, okay?"_

Later, she would rationally explain her reaction as a combination of exhaustion, sleep deprivation, and the crashing from the norepinephrine and cortisol pumping through her system for the last few days. She would be able to cite studies on the impact of trauma and the formation of emotionally charged memories. In the moment, she couldn't explain it at all.

Temperance Brennan broke down into uncontrollable sobs.

"Dr. Brennan?"

Forgiveness... It was something he believed in, something he'd taught her about more than any story or challenge in life. But anger was a fire she knew well, one that she'd touched repeatedly in life, only to withdraw wounded. Breaking dishes, ominous warnings of waiting for someone to arrive at a house perversely called 'home' – she knew its darkness. So when Booth stated he was angry with her – rightfully so – and that he couldn't be with her unless that anger subsided, she understood that she had not yet been gifted with his forgiveness.

She'd hurt him deeply that night at the Hoover. Some pains never healed. It was the same with bones.

"Did... did you know that evolutionary biologists posit... that crying evolved as a signal... for peace?"

She laughed and sobbed at once, rubbing her eyes with her hands. "I didn't know that."

"It's true... I don't know why I dreamed... whatever... But he loves you," Vincent insisted. "My brain is adamant that you know..."

"I don't know what this means," she murmured.

"Neither... do I," Vincent muttered.

They shared a soft laugh, her hand reaching to squeeze his tightly as he winced in pain.

"Rest, Vincent. You need to heal," she urged him.

"My mum..."

"Is here, honey," she announced, returning to his side. "Don't push yourself. Easy does it."

"Tired... Jaffa Cakes. Craving them."

"Oh love, I didn't think to bring any..."

This was her prompt, as Booth would say, to leave. She quietly excused herself and retreated to the bathroom, where she dampened paper towels with cool water and pressed them against her eyes to reduce redness and swelling. High school secrets that never failed her. _Don't let them see you hurt. Don't let them see you've been crying._ Weakness was never safe to reveal.

Satisfied with her composure, she returned at last to the waiting room, where a dozen eyes locked on hers immediately.

"How is he?" Angela asked.

"Very tired and in pain, but coherent," she replied. "He's resting again. I have to make a call."

Stepping into the hall, she began dialing the independent grocer near her apartment. At the third ring, her call was answered with a warm greeting she presumed sprung from her generous patronage of the store.

"Marcus, I was hoping you might be able to assist me in locating what I believe to be a European dessert product. Have you any idea where I might purchase a... _Jaffa Cake_?" She listened carefully, nodding in satisfaction as he returned to the line after a brief hold. "Would you be able to obtain those for me on my tab and have them delivered to George Washington's emergency department? What? No, I'm fine, but a colleague is injured and would appreciate them... Thank you."

"Bones?"

She spun around at the sound of her partner's voice. "Booth! You startled me."

"What's a _Jaffa Cake_?"

"Some sort of cookie that isn't a cookie, from what my grocer tells me. We'll find out when they arrive, I suppose."

"Arrive?" Booth asked.

"He located eight boxes at a nearby specialty store. They're being delivered for Vincent."

Booth lingered in silence, the corner of his mouth upturning ever so slightly. Feeling herself flush, she excused herself for coffee. She knew that smile as well as the Boothy grin, only this one was far more rare. Whatever it meant, it was something rather significant.

When she glanced back over her shoulder, he was still half-smiling at her from twenty feet away.

* * *

He'd disappeared again.

She'd only just left minutes before, seeking out Vincent's physician to ensure that he wasn't prescribed a painkiller that would impede his breathing further. Satisfied that the low dose of fentanyl was doing little more than making him what the doctor referred to as "loopy", she returned to the waiting room and immediately felt an absence.

"Where's Booth?" she asked quickly.

"Vincent's awake," Cam replied. "He wanted to see Booth this time."

Her stomach turned uncomfortably, anxiety sinking in. Why did Vincent want to talk to Booth? What if he mentioned this strange dream about the unknown woman to him? They'd come so far recently, come so very close to restoring that bond she'd once relied upon to be as certain as gravity. With the guilt Booth surely felt for Vincent's injuries, a reminder of the pain she'd inflicted last year could be devastating, to say the least. It didn't take an expert on emotions to foresee it.

The room was beginning to feel constricted and it wasn't merely the pungent scent of several unwashed people and fast food remnants contributing to her discomfort. _The lab. The bones_. She needed to be home – _her _home. She needed to find Broadsky before he struck again, because he would. She had no doubt on that subject.

A flurry of movement jarred her from her ruminations and she understood as her colleagues and friends drifted out of the room and to the right that they had been permitted visiting time with Vincent. Which meant Booth was _oh, right there, at the door_. His face was a mix of seeming confusion and frustration. She'd come to know it from countless discussions on the platform whilst rattling off injuries to bones and refusing his demands for easy answers.

"_First the truth, then the catching_," she could hear herself say in distant memory.

Seeking the truth, she slipped past Booth and headed for the exit, hopeful the commotion would draw his attention away long enough to secure a taxi outside. _Be invisible, be unseen_. She willed it so with each step, but it was futile: Booth stormed in front of her, using his muscular frame to block her escape.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

"Home. I need to shower and change before returning to the lab," she replied calmly, averting her gaze ever so slightly beneath his.

"Like hell you're going there!" Booth countered. "Bones, it's dinner time. Sleep time. The case can wait until morning."

Oh, he was angry again! Vincent must have raised the issue of the Hoover with him during their visit. Her chest ached as she recalled that awful period months prior, where she'd become a part of his scenery in life, one more person to be simply passed by. If they were to return to that place...

"Broadsky needs to be found," she insisted, steering her thoughts from the metaphorical wounds she was salting.

"And we'll find him, I promise you," Booth replied, edging ever so slightly closer. "But not tonight. You're going to rest and have a good meal first."

"Booth – "

"You're staying with me tonight."

It was a command, an order. The military man was executing his strategy without bothering to consult the civilian caught in the crossfire. And yet, even as she simmered with indignation at the thought that years later, he _still _failed to fathom how infuriating he could be, she noticed _that _look in his eyes. She felt a brief wave of vertigo strike her then and steeled herself against it.

He was scared for her. Terrified, even. To refuse him would be to _hurt _him.

"Okay." One word, so much unsaid beneath its surface.

"Thank you."

And with his gratitude, he embraced her tightly, and Brennan knew this was no "guy hug", no friendly gesture. His body trembled and she clung to him, needing his strength as much as he needed hers in return. Her face rested against his chest and she inhaled his scent, a mix of sweat and traces of cologne and pheromones that had often driven her to self-pleasure in large doses, much to her chagrin.

"Bones," he murmured against her hair. "God, if anything happened to you..."

"It won't," she assured him.

"How do you know?" he asked quietly, pulling back to study her face.

This was an easy question, one settled by evidence. "Because you won't let it happen."

His lips parted as if to speak, only to close once more. Instead, his hand seized hers, fingers interlaced, and he led her cautiously outside, scanning the parking lot several times over. It felt good to allow him this contact – _safe_. As irrational as it seemed, Brennan longed to be tiny, to be enveloped entirely in his callused hands. She trusted them to shield her, to keep her from harm.

"Okay, quickly," he urged, leading her to the Sequoia parked seven rows away.

She obeyed him, her own gaze capturing their surroundings for analysis. Every person was scrutinized, every vehicle searched for signs of predatory life. She would never admit it, but she did exhale a breath in relief once safely stowed in the passenger seat. Booth, too, seemed to relax once they were on the move, perhaps calculating the odds of a sniper – even one on par with his skills – striking a moving target darting between lanes of traffic in a tremendous hurry.

"Booth, if you're going to drive so erratically, perhaps you should forewarn the other vehicles and use the siren?" she suggested.

"Baby, we can't use the siren," he replied under his breath.

_Baby?!_ No, she'd heard him wrong, surely! "Why not?" she asked instead, feigning oblivion.

"It would be an abuse of my authority unfortunately, although if this traffic doesn't clear up in the next block, I'm not sure I'll give a damn anymore." He cursed beneath his breath, turning onto a side street. "Sitting ducks out here..."

She placed her hand on his knee, squeezing lightly. "Booth, it's going to be okay."

The car jerked slightly to the right, echoing the heat radiating between her thighs. _Mistake. Big mistake_. She'd only meant to reassure him, truly, but her physiological responses were amplified by the gravity of their situation. She lifted her hand away, only to have his press her palm back to his clothed thigh.

"You can stay there," he murmured. "I mean... I'm fine. With that."

Brennan squeezed her legs together, willing away the growing ache. This was unwise. There was a line here, one they'd been dancing around for years. Each had taken steps forward only to watch the other retreat. And yet, her hand remained upon his thigh, as directed. With every passing moment, the prospect of denying Booth anything grew more remote.

"Your place is so damn far," he muttered, glaring at the red light up ahead.

"I don't need to go home, I suppose."

"You don't?"

She shook her head. "I need a shower. I have clean clothes at the lab –"

"You're not working tonight, Bones," he interrupted quickly.

"Will you let me finish?" she snapped. "As I was _about to say_, since I am forbidden from doing my job, I merely need _something_ to wear for tonight while washing my current garments."

Booth sighed. "Well, I have sweats and t-shirts that should work for you."

"Then take the next right and we'll be two blocks from your place," she directed him.

"I know where I live," he grumbled.

The rest of the drive was silent, save for the rush of blood inside her skull as she edged her fingertips a millimeter further up his thigh, unable to resist the temptation. Maybe this would be all she would ever have with him. Maybe these few moments were all that she would be proffered. She accepted them wholeheartedly.

A fraction of Seeley Booth was far better than not having him at all.

He searched his apartment thoroughly upon their arrival, yanking curtains closed as he went. She remained, as directed, with her back pressed to the wall beside the front door. Once he was satisfied with the security of his home, he ushered her into the apartment.

"I'll grab clothes for you if you want to jump in the shower. There's extra towels in the bathroom," he told her.

With a nod, she headed into the bathroom, where unbidden memories struck her like a fist in her abdomen. Booth shot. Booth dead. Booth's funeral, where Booth wasn't dead at all. This bathroom, where she'd confronted him in a fit of betrayal, because those two weeks had nearly destroyed her fragile grasp of love and friendship and the inherent risks to emotional engagement. Turning on the water as hot as she could stand it, she willed herself to remain focused on the present.

_Vincent said something to Booth_. Given the impact of narcotics upon his system and the freedom with which he'd spoken to her, Vincent was unlikely to have censored himself for Booth. The question was, what had he told him?

_Whatever he's said to Booth, he doesn't seem angry about it._ Booth wore his heart on his sleeve. He certainly tried to mask his emotions, but they were always lurking just beneath the surface of his piercing stare and the quiver of his chin. She'd feel the anger, see it in his body language and posture.

_He called me 'Baby'. What the hell was that?_ She could recall only two other such occasions: once, when he awoke from his coma, believing they were married; and again, when he'd rescued her from that scalpel-wielding doctor – their first case after said coma. Infantile terms of endearment annoyed her, but she appreciated their place in society as tokens of affection. _Booth feels affectionate_.

_Vincent spoke of forgiveness: has Booth forgiven me? __Is he no longer angry?_ An overwhelming possibility. So many doors opened as a consequence, but would she dare walk through them now? If she were to enter a social contract today and lose Booth tomorrow... A blink and tears began to fall in earnest.

"I won't survive it," she whispered.

The solution, then: catch Broadsky, then determine Booth's stance. Relieved at having come to a conclusion based on rational decision-making, Brennan switched off the shower and stepped out onto the mat. She'd only just managed to secure a towel around her torso when she heard it:

Glass shattering. A curse and a thud.

It was foolish, impulsive. Life-endangering. But she ran towards the sound, calling his name in earnest.

"Booth! BOOTH!"

"Son of a bitch!" he angrily spat from the kitchen.

"Booth!"

She nearly tumbled to the ground, damp feet meeting tile in a furious skid as she drew to a halt. No blood, no gunshots – just a broken wine glass and a very frustrated FBI agent, staring at the shards. And she, nearly naked, staring agape as Booth's gaze fixed upon her.

"Bones, what are you doing?"

"I... I thought..."

He understood, nodding quickly. "I'm sorry. Just dropped a glass." Gesturing to her feet, he added, "Out of the kitchen. You'll cut your feet."

"Of course."

Feeling sheepish and rather exposed, she turned around to retreat towards the bathroom, where she hoped to find something more substantial than what now seemed a paper-thin wrap made of well-worn terry cloth. She made it five steps before strong arms enveloped her from behind, pulling her against a broad chest.

"Bones," he murmured beside her ear.

"Booth?" It was almost a squeak, such was her surprise.

"I have to tell you something." She tried to turn around and face him, but he held her tighter. "No, it's easier if I... I'm not angry, Bones."

Four words. So much power surging beneath the five meager syllables. She drew a sharp inhale, held it to steady herself.

"I screwed up," he continued. "At the Hoover, I... I shouldn't have made an ultimatum. I know you need time to process and think, but I guess... I guess I expected you to run."

Stung, she fought against him, wrenching herself around to face him. "You expected me to run from you?"

"Not because of you, not anything wrong on your part. Bones, I..." He sighed deeply, closing his eyes. "I'm so out of your league. I've always felt that way. I expected 'No' and heard 'No' instead of 'Not yet'."

"Oh..." Her hand reached up to brush his cheek, drifting along the surface, admiring his jaw line.

"Forgive me, Bones. Please?"

"I... I made the mistake," she replied, confused.

"Maybe we both did, then. But I made the first one," Booth insisted.

Mirrored stances now: her right hand still pressed to his cheek; his right hand reaching to cup hers. Something shifted in the air, imperceptible and impossible, and the ache grew within her. Her damp hair clung to the back of her neck, reminding her of her vulnerable state. She was vulnerable that night as well, raw nerves from recalling how they'd almost, but hadn't. Tequila and the stupid line she'd sensed long before he drew it.

"I'm still that guy," Booth murmured. "But this isn't a gamble. You're too important to treat so frivolously."

"What is this, then?"

"Scientific fact. A plus B equals C."

"Hydrogen and oxygen," she offered nervously.

Some molecules, she knew, preferred to form. They happily joined.

"And when they combine?" he asked.

"They form a building block of life," she answered softly. "I-I'm not impervious."

"I never believed you were, Bones. I'm just glad you've realized it."

And with that, his lips crashed over hers and she yielded to him, his shirt the collateral damage of her frenzied need to know him, to be consumed by him. Socks, slacks, boxers adorned by a sports team logo, the towel that tumbled from her torso - a trail of breadcrumbs to the bedroom. More collateral damage as she sought his warmth, tasted his flesh. Speech gave way to hushed promises of love, panted names and tangling limbs as each sough to dominate and claim the other.

It was everything she had surmised it would be and so much more. And while the laws of physics remained intact, Brennan understood Booth's definition of lovemaking at last.

* * *

Machines clicked and hummed, the soft beeping the soundtrack of Vincent's last minute on earth.

He'd made his peace now, having been offered the chance to return and see his mother again. He'd had the chance to tell each and every person who'd touched his life how much he cared, be it by phone or in person. But now, as every breath grew more pained, he felt the agonizing pain shoot across his chest in lightning fashion and couldn't speak of it, couldn't save himself.

But he had saved _them_, hadn't he?

It was the bargain he'd made, and whether that bargain was with a hallucination, an angel or some other force, he'd lived up to his end and been granted his reward. Many of the bodies he'd encountered in the lab had not been granted that privilege.

His fingers strained towards his mother's sleeping face as his heart stilled, the unnoticed damage obscured during surgery. Had someone looked one millimeter deeper...

* * *

_**SHINY NEW EXTENDED END NOTE: I know... Evil woman. EVIL. But I hope this answers the reader who questioned whether Vincent would be so bold. Vincent knew something you didn't know in part one: that he was going to die anyway. He DID survive the shot... but not the surgery, because of doctor error... Technicalities, I know... I love him, I do. But he told me he had to die. Blame the voices in the brain  
**_

_**Let me know what you think of this vision of what could have been... y'know, aside from Vincent not really making it out alive, after all... **_

_**If you're a fan of what ifs, you ought to check out The Hand You're Dealt, a semi-AU that plays with those notions, as well as The Ring In The Reflecting Pool. For those who love one-shots, my themed series The Mixed Tape might just be to your liking. And yes, all three will continue soon!**_


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